"There's not much doubt in any of our minds that no complete idea springs fully formed from our brow,
needing only a handshake and a signature on the contract to send it off into the world to make twenty-five billion dollars.
The germ of the idea grows slowly..." - Walt Kelly

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Streaking bravery

Poetry Month, Day 16:
I tried, but couldn't get anything out of today's prompt, so I just wrote something off the cuff instead:

A look into our eyes: there's no comprehension, but we'll ape it - levy
          our fears into tax breaks and deliver on blind promises to men
          who have seen too much. Those men will raise glasses, then
          shovels, and take what was yours, bury it deep. Cold dirt and a
          rock will be your only reminder years from now.

Imagine it as a chess match, clacking victory that prances across
          laminated wood. Wouldn't it be easier if there were a warning
          track, something to keep us from straying too close to the edges,
          something to scrape the cataracts clean? That way you'll know:
          coffins keep promises far better than any human ever could.

If it must end this way, at least let it end with some certainty. Try to
          spoon out all the makings of a time bomb, but don't get tangled in
          the rainbowed wiring - it's a sensation you get that you know
          should be something like anguish, when really, that feathery
          feeling in your muscles signifies relief.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Portugal. The Man, Children

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