all that remains wood are the ravines
too steep for building on no shoppingmall
prospect flooded every year now soon
every season. hills without valleys we
raise and raze and grade. second and third
gen temples to the economy almighty
always hungry for more worship.
our heart was once a donut shop sunday stop
now anew with full plastic fluorescence
over the counter for external use only safe
and unsafe for consumption. without
sidewalks we still boast suburbia. we
have the cul-de-sac collection we have
the marks of modular paving pattern
disease growing every three years (or so)
it cloaks our seated and buckled bloat
anew. enamel and tint. to keep rolling
out the fat whilst we keep birthing
angst sponges with mart access to guns
we keep birthing sporting sheep and
bear hope in mascot pride that our team
this time will kick the ass of yours. to
its cheer we drink fizz and beer to
positive blips in the nightly news
and followed by an otherwise
inevitable impotence we gulp.
maybe this time tonight we can drive
past our exit. this quarter tank at least
it will buy us some emotion as it will
not find a farm or its food or the ghost
of peoples that knew the wood lo[s]t.
