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writing for godot

Political Poem

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Written by Paul Moon   
Sunday, 15 September 2013 22:05
Its not a Sunday nor a curved Saturday lives.
See Nixons or Kims in their rantings
as madmen control coal nights, bantering
musing and misunderstanding, as sieves.

Halls of Fame with political helter skelter
swirls, mixed in Iraqui coffee in tainted absolution,
spooned intrusions… Madmen wither and rant
as worldly mastery. Vibrant birds slant.

Bush dreamed a sullen moon and hazy sun.
What a dream in its arrogance! To book
a state in the parrot’s featherbeat, in tune
with an understanding, no, a fork

to capture the wind’s imagination. Once
I dreamed of something simple as a comma.
Where to be a comma’s love, its mantra
to make conversation smooth as glass

yet, to grant absolution in pause and praise
in parenthetical thoughts in frothy waves’
ebb and flow. Or its Main Street featherbeat
to capture vile vibrations of motorcades.

Che and Malcolm, I am at a loss for a word.
As I splinter the wood from its splinters,
there is a dream. It’s a waking dream, heard
not by mouth or sight but a feel, a Sister’s

feel for the black and white habits of color.
A sociopathic Sarah is calling, and here,
and Abraham is absconding from this tenant.
Exit stage right. My waking dream is slant and bent.

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