poem #32

slick pig
The real business behind the curtain
swallowed up that April’s sun as soon as it arrived.
Bad-luck-struck from the get-go, unable
to see the multitude for the tree-peoples
of personal hopes and dreams, we were
(simply put) only somewhere:
still behind the eight-ball of everything,
still the mocked sons of industry’s fallen king.
How long could we carry on just carrying-on?—
The carrion of a generation’s education
spread thin amongst the vultures of the information age?
How far would the veil be pulled up over
our heads before the slow satin of another era’s
dawning would drop fully down upon us?
Bleakness became us.  Built for the blunderbuss,
we were abandoned in the realm of the battle rifle.
The ballistics of corporate realities had us
rightly bought-out before our very eyes…
There once was a man who said
at the heart of any true endeavor
is a tethered ego and a willingness to release
that which is rightly ours to hold onto.
Yet to give up more
than that which belonged to us in the beginning
is an impossibility.
All we really ever had
was our own lives to live.
– Richard C. Armstrong III
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