The Illusion of Choice
A man picks up his phone,
And it feels like something new...
It's as heavy as a boulder,
Right behind him is the view
Of his fair city,
Wet from rain treatment...
As Phil turns 'round his phone
He's assured that it's indeed the one
That has been assigned by sight...
So it's Phil now at the window,
Gawking...
He is
Eking out the night...
...Beside him is a half a pint
That burns his throat when
Quickly drunk...
Downstairs upon his
Workbench waits
An envelope that's not been torn...
It's the voters registration letter...
All his family in that jagged tree
Has assured him that if he decides
On a candidate who is deeming to be
As a shining star for our countries vest
Then he's deigned to furnish
For the ballot box...
As you must lay down with a
Snappy thrust
What you think is right
In a Swing State's patch...
This feeling of pure
Circumstance
Is a stirring jolt
Of a lightening thrill,
And it makes hairs dance
On the back of necks
When they slide the pick...
Where the tickle sits...
O, If I were a Leninist
All dressed in black...
The ways I ache,
And the lack of luck
Would just make my list,
And the coliseum
Where those runners run
Would add more to thought;
Never feel store bought
Where the crowds would come
When their underwhelmed...
For a quick bloodshed,
Or a bath and jack
Where we yank the fat
'til it's less then loose
From the Mother Goose...
This man picks up his phone,
And it feels like something's
Older...
It's as heavy as a breaking sweat,
Right behind him is
The closed out set,
Still wet from rain
As Phil whips in shock...
He's self assured that she's been
Full gawking...
Now he's
Eking out the night for spite...
A silent pistol shot is bled...
He can stare upon her ice white Walls...
Her tits of parables and ferns in Pleasant
Plaza window wells...
...Beside him is a half a pint
That burns his throat when
Quickly drunk...
Downstairs upon his
Workbench waits
An envelope that's not been cut...
7/13/24
Bunny Villaire
Edit #2