November 1988

 

In the early part of November,

election jerks at ears

from the car radio, at eyes

from T.V.  Just a drive,

get away from town

with the radio off.

Stubble fields

are a wasteland of gravel quarries,

rusting basalt.

Corrosion seeps off the road.

They put brightly

colored signs on framed wooden sticks

to replace the forests.

Pick your color.

Candidates are painted paper clothing

torn from your flesh just before

the cry of rape fails

on the deaf mind.

 

first published in Living With a Stranger: self portrait, 1993.

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About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

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