The Whimper Poem by Jay Bradley

The story of young men and women blossoms under the Devilmoon's shade,
This is where stars hide because gilded boulevards envy them so:
Where nights illuminate themelves in the crossroads of brick-bedecked corridors,
Where one might see hanged gallows and galleries of the heart soul and spirit of the happily hungry,
Where all types tend to follow the status quo: tolerance; where some aspire for more;
And this is what the Billy-Bob thumb-**** Dales choose to not understand,
So becoming that they cannot comprehend the joy we take in pain,
So frightened are they of honking horns traffic lights and the gentle screeching of a train,
So that, all the while, in the land of purpose, the land of vain,
They don't see the fog come drifting,
And no one hears the whimper give way;

The story of established men and kept-away women occurs in the rays of a red blinding sun,
This is where passing-by cars notice emerging stars because the middle is always unsure:
Where high school heroes and drunkards garnish in love; where stoned black sheep tarnish for indifference,
Where one can see arranged plots and plantations of the same craft and concrete, the same wood and way,
(the same, the same, the same)
Where all roads lead to power and light: intolerance, POWER AND WHITE;
And this is what Downtown demons like me cannot understand,
Why would one languish away their lives in castles made of sand,
And complain to the authorities and Glenn Beck about minorities only to devour food in chain restaurants,
both of Mexicans' hand?
So that, all the while, in the land of supply, the land of demand,
We begrudge them when the fog comes drifting,
And no one hears the whimper give way;

The story of old-timers and their supposed wisdom lolls itself along to the midmorning's lullaby,
This is where the dwellers busy themselves with earthly tasks in order to better know heaven,
Where one once saw hanged galleries and gallows of the heart soul and spirit of the change they feared,
Where this constitutes the way of many: malevolence; like a plague it lingers near,
And this is what the midway moms and dads choose to not understand,
So entrenched are they in their way and castles made of sand that they hate, the emptiness of a farm,
So spiteful are they of narrow gravel roads banished barns and the sounds of silence that deliver them alarm,
So that, all the while, in the land of yeomen, the land of the marm,
They told none the fog came drifting,
And no one heard the whimper give way.