Fly bird, fly as you are able,
Rise above this lethal turf
Where shots are fired, insults hurtled,
Where the terrible and tumultuous noise
Mutes the ear to your sweet and melodious warble.

Upstairs they are debating
Which apocalypse will be the first to bring us down,
Which tyrant will be the next to jerk us up,
Carry us off to foreign lands,
Shanghaied for the building of pyramids and power-plants.

I have come to realize
That all of my words may be scribed in vain.
Yet another generation may be lost to constant nausea
And migraine headaches,
Whole societies infected by their own communal consent.
Entire nations oblivious to their self-inflicted fate,
Eagerly lapping at the sour milk of ignorance.

It would be better to sniff bay leaves
Or eat rose petals, than do nothing, I surmise.
Better to break bread and drink wine.
Better to flirt with thesaurus and dictionary,
Your sister’s best friend or disastrous situations.
Better yet, to chill the fevered mind,
Paint a picture, write a song
Better this,
Than cue the hand to idle masturbation.

This being yet another symptom of the
Viral epidemic directly linked to the feet-dragging,
Unimaginative, conservative-based, politically-driven
Morass known as purposeful procrastination.

The question, to be sure,
Is it the disease that’s killing us or is it the cure?

We would do better to redefine ourselves,
To see ourselves
As some benign pretender to the throne,
Some incorruptible presidential candidate,
Some uncharacteristically upstanding C.E.O.

I’m just sayin’
Mary Jane wants to be our next best medical salvation,
With fanciful excursions to exotic places,
Searches for buried treasures and space stations,
Visions of dense, wild vine-tangled jungles
And cloud-shrouded mountain tops.

We all might sleep easier in a more natural state.
We need to be free to ingest the oft-elusive bud of love,
With its sickly-sweet scent of belonging,
Its sticky-finger feel of security,
And a healthy hint of social camaraderie.

And though I know the futility
Of staying well on this planet,
I want to believe.
I truly want to believe that life is for the living!

To convey, however, is not necessarily to convince.
And all the while, this rampant dis-ease eats us alive.
And there seems no way to put an end to it.

Perhaps in times past
Leeches would have sucked this venom out.
Now the jar is filled with pills
And we are told that we should be aware
Of the many possible side effects.



Michael S. True
9-8-14