Dull-Head

Last night a few falling leaves;
We sat outside watching the wind whip around and
blow everything apart.

I noticed that night fell early now.
Darkness found its way home, like sailors lost at sea
finally finding the land they longed for. It pulls its ship
into port and cries “Thank Ye God, I am home."

The light is gone now.

We wailed with the wind and hoped for a downpour of rain to wash our sins away.

What is in our blood and what is our blood on?
What came first the chicken or the DNA strand?

What sounds slipped in as we prayed?

What sounds, silent as pickpockets slipping trained hands
into our jeans and whisking away our identity?

What silent sounds never heard
hurried in our heads then flew away?

In distance, a group of men stand before us.
They stare down with stern faces that never laugh.
In their hands they hold heavy books, the covers caked with dust.

They write our names in their leather bound
books and close the covers.

The case is closed and we don't even know
what the son of bitches wrote.

Was it the banker or the
baker that first saw right through us?

Who was it that bought us pound by pound,
ounce by ounce?

We find a bottle of brandy and toast the afternoon bowel movement;
the mundane now a case for celebration.

Elliot was wrong, it is June that is cruel,
the warm sun, lovers in bloom.

God bring winter and cover us all in a
cold blanket.

They will find us a hundred years from now
captured in ice, our faces frozen
in a dull gaze.

Now shut the hell up
and turn the T.V. on.