mmmdxcii

Panic, Don’t Fail Me Now

I miss Elvis. Oh, my eye, 

my hyperbolized—my fanta
sized—mother, my heart
broken (stolen?) reality,
oh, Mom! Is this (really?)
what it’s like? A sort of
tongue-in-cheek, perjor
ative call to arms?

I read the news today—
oh, boy. . . .

So what do I now have
in his stead? It appears
to be a slice of chocolate
cake with strawberry icing.
Or else cherry icing? The
intent of it, the calendar
that hangs upon my wall,
like the gregorian calen
dar itself. . . .

I am to provide a sense
of structure, of normalcy
and steadfastness.

The higher purpose of
any civil rights move
ment is to incite move
ment toward an equal
ity, toward an ideal,
an ideal set of civil
rights, true or false?
It isn’t to. . . .

Wake up! Walk!
Three steps for
ward, two steps
backward.

I’d rather give my
self up for a mere
tidbit of reparation
than be the math
ematician who’s in
charge of summing
up all of our steps
backward and for
ward, only to sur
mize regression.

Say it ain’t so, Joe!

When the struggles
are this idiotic. When,
in summation, I’m
dumb as a bum in
a battle am I, cog
in the wheel of a
civilization that’s
just been slung
such a wrench.

At the burial
ground of
battle-cries,
one of us
has to start
shoveling.

Oh, Mom. Oh,
Mom, Oh, Mom,
Oh, Mom, Oh
Mom, I could
have done you
so much better.