I have this recurring nightmare:flailing pigeon, her broken feetfrozen solid to the freezing pavement.
I turn away as if 
I do not see.
I have this childhood memoryof my old man screaming from the driver’s seatto turn away from an unfolding horror,but he could not undo what 
I had seen.
We never spoke of it again.
Two more hapless citizens ofthe new post-traumatic stress worldwide disorder.
A stockholm syndrome fifth estate,desperate to batten down the mounting horrorsand shuffle on in a global lotus gait.
Content to marinatein the plasma glow of thehome entertainment prisons wecommune before like dime-store shrines.
Are these but votive lives?
A strangled, twisted trussthat shores-up each of us.
Anything to dull the painof a splintered lotus gait.
As for me a filigree of psychic police tapetends to cordon-off the darker scenes.
But the wandering mind stumbles through itand relives them all eventually.
Pries open wide your eyesand shines a painful lighton the guilt, the fear, the shame.
The courage never camefrom the plasma glow of thehome entertainment prisons wecling to like dime-store shrines.
Are these but votive lives?
Conservative at heart.
A conformist from the start.
A stockholm syndrome fifth estate.
A staggering lotus gait.
It’s a strangled, twisted trussthat shores-up each of us.
So anything to dull the painof a self-inflicted, crippling lotus gait.