7/23/2014
the plane rolls over the california mountains
we pass over homes,
and stores,
and jails
we pass over the bars,
where bitter old men go
to remind them of their sorrows
we pass the *******,
where 20 year old men go
to feel like lions
we pass the cloudy river,
where a man sits fishing for not fish,
but love
we pass the jail,
where a ***** woman sits
and prays for heaven to take her
we pass the hills,
where couples go to ****
and die
we pass the roads,
full of insensitive men,
crying women,
vomiting kids,
and clueless elders
we pass the land
which has witnessed the
genocide of a people
we pass over a thousand murderers,
and a thousand molesters,
and a thousand arsonists,
and a thousand lunatics
we pass over a land
founded on the color of white
and *** we pass over this hell,
I look towards the man on my left
a 40 something year old
business man,
reading a mag,
drinking a coke,
and sipping up his cluelessness
then there are the people behind me
indian
2 women, and a child
a mother,
daughter,
and grandchild
who must know all too well
how much of a hell we're in,
but they do not bite their thumb
for maybe this is meant to be,
maybe there is no way to escape this,
maybe there *is no way to fix this
yet,
I do bite my tongue at the world
I do bite my tongue at humanity,
at society,
at love,
at loneliness
yes,
I bite my tongue at people
but as we pass above the clouds,
and hell slowly vanishes
beneath a film of illusion,
my thoughts do vanish,
and I no longer
am reminded of hell
© 2014 Rembrin Hawke
I've been reading quite a bit Bukowski lately, as you may possibly be able to tell. He's rubbed off on me a tad, and I'm not sure how to feel about that.
Cynicality is not a very good trait.
