I Don'T Want To Be Rich… Rudiments Of A Killing Floor. Semblance Of A Dream. - Poem by jerome moore
The cold wind floats in war cries of past tribes.
The spirits of these plains inhabit the prairie fires.
When I enter one of those places, you know gambling houses?
people often ask me howling how I made out,
sometimes un verbal and in their eyes.
I answer Alive.
They say thats the spirit but little do they know we all have our weight
and I never gamble.
Life is dubious enough and the turns are immense, and the luck piece of lint in the wind
my inside out pockets like sails lead me to paramount freedoms all in the realm of now
what could be is uncertain and what was is lackluster.
I don't chase my losses.
Money Is nothing to me
and my love of life Brings me out of the gambling house alive.
I make music with my pen, still things melt, and static nudes jump, celebrate.
Gambling houses are worldly microcosms inhibited by all races, religions, and socio economic casts.
When I met a vietnamese patronI asked if they remember My Lai remember cluster bombs, operation rolling thunder?
The arabs, Desert storm?
The Puerto ricans, Bootstrap
The ecocide, democide, plague, famine, Small pox Blankets,
The blacks, blood diamonds, Tuskegee, Katrina, King, Malcolm, Mumia?
Americans, Business wars that took the lives of your sons and daughters, PNAC,1776,1917,1969,1984,911?
Maybe We forgive and forget?
Maybe its like the repression a rape victim uses to move on?
Maybe its the educational system?
Maybe its the snake oil?
Maybe the analysts?
I don't want to be rich, thats a dream, only die comfortable with dignity and love.
Incubi and sucubi hover above the smokey killing floor
The american Indians have amnesia
Or just do what the have to to get by
there is a specter on these plains and that rag used to capture it is covered in blood
the tower of babel disguised as the entertainment industry.
And the greedy spirits laugh with the ignorant...
Comments about I Don'T Want To Be Rich… Rudiments Of A Killing Floor. Semblance Of A Dream. by jerome moore
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You