We leave our house every day and approach the killing fields.
Armed with a make-believe smile and a fully charged cell phone
We enter the arena of hell. All human emotions stop.
Feelings have been redirected to blankness. Nothing can stop us.
There is no good morning or good afternoon
The order of the day is to kill him. For we have killed everything else.
Taxi’s fly by like on a suicide mission speeding out of control.
The single flower that grows through the tiny cracks
On the cement sidewalk struggle for survival
Only to be chocked by the fatal fumes in the air.
The undertaker takes notes;
We are surely in the arena of death.
An old man walks the street with a crooked cane
Gasping for air as the crowd calls out. Get the fuck out of the way
Like a victory speech in a madhouse.
Where the words of kindness have been slaughtered.
Nothing means anything. The jury is rigged. Everything is fake
Compassion has been found dead in the trunk of a 63 Cadillac
We are surrounded by atomic death and cold hands
That lean on a blinking red switch
People look like black flies under a yellow swatter
We are the victim of our own ill intent
The innocent have been cut down by the grotesque.
The mocking bird lies dead from the toxic seed of life.
The earth is slowly dying from injections of poison. Space awaits you.
A celebration of failure. A dance for the dead
Flying flags of treason. A moment of silence with heavy breathing.
Unexplained fireworks from out of nowhere. Nothing makes sense.
In-tangled mismanaged prefabricated stories
The killer becomes a saint in death.
The great illusion is at work.
All the colors intertwine with each other
And become smeared into one stream of miss-aligned distortion
Completely out of focus and out of balance
It is unrecognizable. Perverted to the human eye.
What is this?
No one is there, no one is in charge.
You can see a tear in the eye of the ocean
As the silent echo of the voice says
Please move along
Please move along
Please move
Along..
- Ken Riccio original poems ©
