By Rowan Ricardo Phillips
He never saw a violin.
But he saw a lifetime of violence.
This is not to presume
That if he had simply seen
A violin he would have seen
Less violence. Or that living among
Violins, as though they were
Boulangeries or toppling stacks
Of other glazed goods like young adult
Fiction, would have made the violence
Less crack and more cocaine,
Less of course and more why god oh why.
More of one thing
Doesn’t rhyme with one thing.
A swill of stars doesn’t rhyme
With star. A posse of poets doesn’t rhyme
With poet. We are all in prison.
This is the brutal lesson of the 21st century,
Swilled like a sour stone
Through the vein of the beast
Who watches you while you eat;
Our eternal host, the chummed fiddler,
The better tomorrow,
FOR POL STUDENTS: In regards to "MMXVI" either the Roman numerals or the year may be recited.
More Poems about Living
A wishbone branch falls
from my Grandma Thelma’s oak
What do you know about magic? e1 asks.
E bends e old body down, turns
the wishbone branch into
a cross, places it around my neck.
I am strapped at the Black River’s right shoulder,
I want to put down what the mountain has awakened.
My mouthful of grass.
My curious tale. I want to stand still but find myself moved patch by patch.
There's a bleat in my throat. Words fail me here. Can you understand? I...