They give out books that show
how everything they do is wrong
and still they march us single file
like group of basic ants to where
ever they may need us still to go.
I’ve had people look upon me
with tears below their eyes
and ask me how they could
escape this crushing place
that tastes like nothing but
the glass shards in the carpet.
They know the numbers in
their charts mean next to nothing,
and the radio they play for us
in all its angry static cannot
calm the revolution in our feet.
We keep our fifteen minutes
of blacktop sanctuary like
an old man feeding horses
from his hands, and make
demands for something better
in the morning which is always
swept away into a future we
will never see arrive.
Blacktop Sanctuary
Teleporting Typewriter 