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Bits chased by tips of fingers familiar with plastic
pressure response, conditioned directives
shuttling frowns between givers and fakers,
are flashing attrition up on the wall.
Push-button power, the white chaffing collar,
and the bear develops a taste for bull.
“Who will bite next?” the dust hawkers gamble,
while spooks are left chasing tips dribbled
from serpentine lips all dirty.
“They’ll drown,” the naysayers needle
but the record is old, tired abrasion,
barely audible in the cacophony of digital
                                             hyperventilation.

    babel, babel, babel

The chroniclers of chaos ring around the tower
and pockets crammed with plastic throw credit
to the winds of promise, wafting over cesspit grounds.

    ashes, ashes

Whether pearls or poppycock, the pork barrels bulge.
The snake bites its tail
                                 and we all fall down.

©2002 Carl Pecinovsky

Publication History:

• First Published on the The Utmost Christian Writers online gallery, December 2002.