Basket Case by Vin Whitman

The news has folded inward
Has swept across the sky
Homes knocked like empty skulls
Together in a bruised neighborhood

Who has permission
To disappear from a loveless promise
To bypass the dead
Sex act of conjuring
A generational sinkhole
Raising daisies and babies
Without irony

Where did I learn to fear the laughter?
When I turned my back for
A moment, “art” was short for
Artificial
While I slept words lost power
In so many mouths

Pottying in shallow rivulets
Trickles of intelligence leaked
From the main artery into the gulf
So full of petrol and profit
There’s no mistaking the groove
For anything but

Hell on Earth
Friends and neighbors deeply
Asleep
While I invent the linear wheel
Rolling like a serpent looking for
The meat of its extremity

Vin Whitman

Vin Whitman is a writer, editor and radio programmer living in Sarasota, Florida. He likes needles, spiders and public speaking. His work can be found or is forthcoming at Yellow Chair, Rasputin, Section 8, Peeking Cat, Uut Poetry, and Crow Hollow.

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