(I have been having this dream lately. The same one, but I cannot, for the life of me, recall what it’s about.) The money we thrust so easily into the mouth of a machine- soda, candy, chips, a car-wash, cigarettes, coffee, anything. The human mouth of billions sealed in a death sentence, a tiny bird wedged in the pipes, a young deer in the road, unsure of where to go, startled. We needn’t concern ourselves with these creatures. Life is a candle. The suffering is too great to fathom, the grief. We all suffer in this life, hunger’s just another form. At times the pressure is too great and the beast howls a song for me. I feel the wrench of regret and stop, turn to the consumption machine, facing it, I stiffly push my crumpled nourishment into the slot. (I remember the dream now. I am this machine and- or am I the sustenance the world seeks? It was dark.) © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)