A Poem About Being An Independent Poet In A Fact-Enslaved United Excuse for States

THE MISAPPROPRIATION OF LITTLE WHITE LIES CAN MAIM AND EVEN KILL ~ Jonathan Swift

PRICED 

Business became busy in the

head: bidness, gambouling, gambling,

bling, Ling-Temco-Vought, 

F-111, 

small-town and rural dignity inflamed

until American peasantry erupts

into civil war.  Wholesome

or Loch Ness?  Zombies cannot be

left to choose, for they always

take Death.  Any infinity

which knows us: like magic!  Nope is

automatic, priceless, censorship, 

some lost potter in London 

did not care about being caught up in

Grade Q bizwacks, mind yer 

own.  The they, they 

love stardom.  How is it--they'll howl

at naivette, protoplasmic bits

about poverty, poor

in souless protocol?  Thus that 16th 

Century vase was foundered

on the floor of a 

machine shop's burnt-down switch

room.  

As usual, it broke.  Disappointment?

Not cashed in? Go. Break whatever it is? Brake it

yourselves. ~ an editorial statement sans facts but replete with honor and actual thinking. For all independent and poetic voices that, because undocumented, are invalid as human beings.