by Mick Hugh
For three years I’ve sat up in my tree,
in the shade of dreams,
and the roots have slowly
been drying up.
For three years catching wafts
of the vinegar and rotted fruits,
of our American Dream,
recessive trait of responsibility.
Who knew at the age of 22,
and itchy skin for sunshine,
that a Fortune 500 would be their Jubilee?
What pederast had it out at 18
to be a financial manager
at corporate Walgreens?
The treelimb you sit on breaks,
and the fall takes a few months.
Rat cages and sychophants
fed twice as much for listening.
The heroics of monotony.
Remember your days
reading textbooks at your desk,
group projects and algebraic thinking:
Little Davey you’ve been cultivated for this.
No need for you to sweat callouses and rough hands,
they’ve got another desk for you.
Pear-shaped where the body-fat masses on…
View original post 95 more words