This Cosmoccocic Treadmill
This cosmoccocic treadmill, if I may borrow from Miller. This Cosmoccocic treadmill we find ourselves contending on. This monomaniacal rat race full of its solecistic gods and managers, its presidential parties with their tautological bull shit. Shit that oozes down to the perspicacious jetsam of society the bum's -who are washed into alleyways, washed from clean and copacetic streets, of marble banks with Parisian balustrades. The radical thinkers, the students, the protesters, washed from the streets by financed police states. These banished souls wise to the puppeteers behind the political curtain, voiceless alone but with style; while the old rich birds fast with novena and the chthonian saints with the miasma of stale alcohol fast with hunger and fuliginous grease found in alleys and roadside gutters. These ragged saints have no ounce of hope for provender or carom let alone enlightenment and peace. They do have something. Inferring that which the rich lack, an insight to the struggles of domain. Hardware stores, grocers and community centers evicted by bank of America when corporate-Mart moves into town. The pulse of transgression and flux metamorphosis kept out of the claws of capitalistic vultures.
poem by Jerome Moore
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