Poetry about capitalism, consumerism, and the difficulties of finding beauty, aesthetic or linguistic, in contemporary American life.
POEMS
Target In the store now— The shelves are scattered. A great chaos of Hands in want Of nothing, Needing everything, Stir ruin in the taking Of all the finer things, Meant for me And meant for you, Who still want for nothing, Needing it most— Aching for the reset of shelves, Or maybe time.
Waffle House I75 Yellow-lettered sign Above the road A rectangular diner, Cheap and uniform Of booth and barstool; Condiment trays overflowing With napkins and menu’s - Hand ready: Where does beauty live In a place like this? The server drafts an order On a pad fanned across her palm. Grease perfume in the air Pressing against the windows When she calls the order It is in a voice worthy of a stage From the stomach to the Audience, rehearsed to the heart A ritual pronouncement of Culinary code, spoken to The ear like a trumpet - Siren song to army’s of the night Marching! Marching! Marching! For a moment, in the sad cavity Of a life — A twinkle in an eye, Worth the taste of food.
Great Clips Hair of different lengths contains its own Gravity. We found this in the search for the center Of the universe. Also found— The sound of a whisper No matter how faint Can live on But I cannot. I need to walk my heart up a mountain, Breather air of a different height. I’m as excited as everyone else in finding That At the center of every universe There is a living being Defying vast odds.
About Me
I am a hobby writer, pursuing poetic form through the lens of capitalism.
Ode To Late-Stage Capitalism 