Evelyn Rondan, “Untitled”
I feel strangely about the ordinary
the intermissions of our dances of tradition
how savory they taste, they fall on our tongues that crave
for tomorrow
like beautiful snowflakes, small and fragile
non-threatening
take a bow and bask in your irony
hypocrisy is in once again, how the youngins crave
for old gilded age trends
out with the new, and in with the old
we punch down to feel the pain of our victims in our souls
the desperate generation bleed like christ to prove a lust for change
like him their messages are sentenced to myth
repackaged in tacky bows; just in time for thoughtless christmas gifts
made with love by the comfortable generation of geometrically-confusing authority
they suckle on their fingers to remember the taste
of the meat of the dove fried and baked
in the oil squeezed from the tear ducts of monarch butterflies
flying south
with our wings clipped we fall
somehow unphased by the Caucus Race of self-inflicted inaction
we gently dip our bodies into the soda rivers of our hopes and dreams
our eyes burn from the acidity, how could what I want hurt me?
standing still, the animalistic humanity remains idle
allowing their sight to be destroyed by the corn syrup they worship
they speak into the liquid, creating bubbles like empty-minded fish
knowing nobody but them can hear:
“tomorrow, somebody, will save our country”