What Can We Do? Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

My back gets torn apart
no one on my six
nine is dissin' Santa Clause, three; well
he's deeped trix up his missus! Bless him!
then there is twelve; men or elves or
vixen, mixing, gagging, bagging, wrapping
Dragons or rapping on doors without blood
swiped on the jambs or getting framed or
framing your own Constitution or chaos
and confusion of this collusion with the
Constituency of all Humanity; pleasing
only yourselves and not your worldly
family', sister', brother', Father', Mother'
and what just got 'stork dropped' upon
your plates! Tears drop, spit plops
cow dung makes a pile, bringing back
that simile in memory of burning up
paper bags of it on that neighborhood
porch stoop; and watching that old man
or woman stomp the flames down through
that flaming bag of shite splattering it all
over the place! Laughing so hard you pissed
your jeans and had to walk miles back
to your home to change; your sorry
minds about what you found out about
your true twelve year old self and your
true 'frame of mind'; how bent are you now?
Go ahead, make up your mind; into a new
one, and drop that fool pooling postulate
of position you prefer... and grapple
with the reality of your totality, remake
your given ability to continue on towards
the horizon's edge to that precipice of either
Future's gold or present's doom and don
the Mantle of Humankind; what ever it may
truthfully be... Good or not good enough
get tough enough in your thoughts to make
a difference; maybe?