6.28.2011

Operative Phrase

The reason you hear
trucks' air-brakes at night
from the highway that's far
by the toils of light:
The ionosphere lowers
to bounce back the waves
that castrate our ears
and rally the slaves.
(He's not listening, Jim.
He won't sit down.)

A genius once
and again told me this
and I mumble his name
as I aim my clear piss
in a toilet that's stained
with the water that's hard
while the house crumbles down
disgraces the yard.
(Pull it, sir. He's Rogue.)

But the hours they lurk
while the weeks drag on by
through the months that tell tales
and the years that don't lie.
There's a snake in the grass.
There's a wrench in the plan
that lost a good boy
in the mazes of man.
(Engage target: John Doe.)

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