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Homeless Man Sings The Red State Blues



Om or home?
Hide the dead.
Hide the dead.

We flirt until struck,
then strike out anew,
renewed in our certainty
that effort's rewarded
with chance, with luck,
with unearned favor or censure,
limiting the parameters of our lives,
of our love, to iron boundaries
around our hearts, minds,
hopes, homes.

What is real is treated as false and the false,
as real.  This is how we heal sovereignty,
escaping into our secret prisons to flee
the casual brutality of childish relations.
Instead of ruins worthy of our ancestors
we leave ruination to the world,
teaching generations to steal home.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.