The Sky is Blue Too
Should we just get it over with?
If it's not God fucking with us, it's the would be Gods.
Sons of bitches!
How much despair is enough? A thimble or a tankard? A ships hull or a continent?
There never was an ark. Someone saw the animals leave before the storm--
[they do sense those things which doesn't say much for the dinosaurs].
It became a parable and the parable became the word of God, and God didn't we buy into that one?
How should we go? Crushed by a crumbling building, fried by fire, washed out to sea--
where a kid will find our bloated carcasses washed up on the beach,
poke our bellies with a stick then run away laughing?
Probably something he learned from Jackass: The Movie-- part ten.
Little sons of bitches.
If the infrastructure, or the wildfires, or the hurricanes or the floods don't get us
then the bankers or the politicians or the warlords or the [kiss my ass the economy sucks and so do you] employers surely will.
My slice of pie sits in the window cooling.
Beautiful, fresh blueberry pie.
The wind blows it off the sill, a vagrant comes by and sticks his dirty thumb in it,
the little kid from next door swipes it.
He sits behind a hedgerow filling his future diabetic belly, shoveling it into his fat little mouth
as his rotting can't afford a dentist no more teeth turn blue.
I look at the sky.
Yeah--it's blue too.
Carly Bryson lives in Houston, Tx and writes poetry and prose dealing with social and political topics and the dynamics of being human. She has work published in Carcinogenic Poetry, Nothing.No.One.Nowhere, Calliope Nerve, The Shine Journal, ETC: A Journal of General Semantics and Poets Against War.
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