A Poem by Raymond Arcangel
Back before the days when the world became flat,
before the auditory wars and the rocks in our hats,
someone should’ve warned your mother and your mother’s brats
against investing in landlines, carbon paper and facts.
Anthropology’s a lost-at-sea ship with award-winning rats
while the ad-men break the ribbon on an oil-slicked track,
winking over their shoulders, dropping appleseed tacks,
snatching at the robin’s eggs and the crusader’s bats.
A volcano love song after ten years on the rack
for the beauty that could make you cry before your heart went ker-splat
against the rims of the unstoppable force and the hint of an act.
Silly times, thought they were changin’, but we took care of that.
The object on rusty skate wheels gave an inch and pushed back.
No one’s gonna accuse these boys of lacking in tact
and anyone who would’s already had their throats cut outback.
Zombie hands across America and a pint of Old Crack
in a jigger of scarecrow blood, shake and chill til it’s black
as ice-age ice and as cold as pure night, or something like that,
while we slow dance and ponder each other like two may-be-dead cats.
Ignore the runny eyes and glassy noses and violent midnight hacks.
One thing I can wholeheartedly assure you is, we were born to relax.
And we’re only light years now from mother’s love,
only screaming our lungs dry in space for mother’s love.