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5 p.m.

Tired smoky daylight hangs over
the ranting cacophony of rush hour
in the cosmopolitan rancor of L. A.,
hiss and growl echoing along red clay
colored walls of Mayan revival
apartment architecture, dour,
intransigent in the current of
currency streaming from Dollar Bank,
John McCain answering Fidel Castro,
the black market priced grocery store
divorced by patriotic exponents from
the funding and prosecution of war.
At the end of the day I'm feeling
nominated, Rhine wine looking like
water in a blue glass, it's all coming
down on my shoulders, the quiet blue
light, as I watch the desperate tally
of delegates committed to my candidate,
the burden pervades with its quaint
illusion, the lie finding hospitality
in the grip of the indestructible span
of a revivalist culture amicable
in the day that never began.

Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 753 times
Written on 2008-02-12 at 16:37