Evening in the antiquated village with the mouths
pouring forth old-timey aphorisms in the light
of another foster program where the news is carried
from house to house in little sealed envelopes
licked with wicked tongues that no longer re-
verberate the sordid reality breathed by
the whole clan. The day passes by like dirty
dishes left in the grimy sink – intentionally
neglected. They will clean themselves we hope.
Hope is such an ancient concept – contorted with
human philosophies and world religions. Hope is
like a soap dish on the side of the toilet
where strangers wipe their dirt and mask
what little dignity they continue to lie to every-
one they still have. Why is hope no longer
found in books? Books have such great smiles
on their rigid cases. Since the time to come
to sleep the years have passed in obsequious
mercurial apathy.
1.29.09
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