do you feel lucky…well, do ya, punk…

do you feel lucky

step right up
and
place
your bets
bet
whatever dollar amount
you wish
there are
no
limits
but
all bets
regardless
of
the wager
are
for
your life
toss the dice
of
climate change
where
the words
of
the game
are
loaded
and
suggest
you can win
but
the reality
is
the house
always wins
and
in this case
the
house
is
death
hey
but
if you’re feeling
lucky
spin
the wheel
of
global warming
watch
the wheel
whirl
like
a planet
out
of control
where
the potential
payout odds
for
survival
are
well
let’s just say
enjoy
the game

 

 

the book of dying: 1:8…

while some starved others grew fat
demanding the weak carry their load
the indebted workers had no choice
so made gold they couldn’t hold

 

nothing personal…

tourist items
manufactured in china
for
the local market
replicated
indigenous art
sold in
riverbank stalls
by
part-time natives
natives
carving out
an existence
in
a one percent world
complaints
issued
by
travelers
who’ve
already
sold their collective humanity
they are
the commune
of
anesthetized day-trippers
who
outline
verbally
over
an air-conditioned lunch
the crass nature
of
indigenous commerce
commerce
that
replicates
the
world
that provided
their passage
to
this
riverside
market

 

powerless to stop it…

 

there’s always
an antiseptic smell
before
death
as if
we truly
believe
we might
cleanse death
from
our being
it’s
a fragrance
of
age
we know it
all
too well
from
nursing homes
and
hospital halls
but
sense it
even as
we walk
along a city street
it makes us
most sad
when
a passing child
has whiffs
of
death
we wonder
why
and
where is
god
but are
soon distracted
by
armani
arden,
or
fresh-baked goods
until
when naked
in
the shower
we
find
that
fragrance

 

concurrent moments…

a child’s
body
effloresces
miles
from the nearest
oasis
no
sounds but the wind
and
dry sand
obscuring
the body
in
land
destroyed
by man
making it
a child’s grave yard
a drink
tasted
was sent back
with
appropriate
angry looks
of
utter disgust
since
it was
obvious
the martini
had
far
too much
vermouth
making it
undrinkable

evolution redefined…

there are
steel butterflies
on the wall
put there
to
soften
the crude
commercial context
of
their creation
and
there’s no need
to catalog
their specific
genetic code
since
the elements
of
their existence
are
for
profit
only

well-traveled…

well-traveled

when life’s hours
turn to minutes
vision
improves
one
sees
so clearly
through
society’s fog
what
were
thought to be
mile markers
were
nothing more
than
headstones
for
implanted
corporate desires
mirages
marking
a journey
that moves
only
as far
as the next chimera
signposts
carefully carved
from
human fantasies
where
each person
obsessed
with wanting
more
travels a path
that leads
upward
to the edge
of
a recurring nightmare
the abyss

dreams can come true…

copyright cwmartin 2011

carefully
crafted
commercials
commemorate
hypothetical
anniversaries
with that
special
fantasized
figure
filling
lonely
loveless
lives
yours
and
anyone else’s
for the taking
if
you’d
only
buy
their
product