2014 #225

Conquest has come easy. Postcard
neighborhood. Mid-Atlantic
placidity. Used to be Southern
placidity. Not the fault
of the geography
soul and spirit placement committee.
They handle only the basics

the demarcation department
draw a couple times in a given
century, at least that’s the schedule
average, draw the basics,
duplicate, they pin, let the corners
yellow. Anyway what was once
flavored in Southern batter contains

liberal apple cider
now which isn’t a bad thing,
just that it isn’t what it was;
just that it lost, again; like we
are all lost, and seem to be
really selected for the dirt-kicker
part that is for the most part

an extras animal, bulls
and broncs chosen for stars
who’ll themselves lounge in the trailer
getting laid and choosing the choicest
cognac and oysters, while doubles
do the real dirty work that rabid
bull and frothing bronc make one do.

So where were we? Conquest. Easy conquest.
The war was never fair for fairness is not the point.
The town should not weep. The town has won
thousands of hearts; hearts that would leak
sorrow as a river should a hand of hell
or hand of heaven tear them out of this town.
Maybe the universe really is one giant war.

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About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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