LOOM

TVs loom above the produce aisle, spoiling all the lettuce, let us be, let me shop in peace, or is it fair trade this trade in flesh, my due penance for helping you murder the local farmer, the farmer's daughter lives in an apartment, her birthright paved over for progress, progressivley growing worse, growing rotten, Mother Earth infested with asphalt sores and dollar stores, her children excavating her womb for shiny rocks and pouring bile in her vains, vein beings, but being one I keep decieving myself, myself, I one being, but being part of the problem I have potential for change if I change my perception, because the perception is that one being lacks the bearing to bend reality when the reality is that reality is our mistress and she's dripping wet with enough ink to write a new song, a song of the sun, to be sung at a higher pitch so my fellow man might percieve the presence of God and presented with his presence pull the plug on the televison.

Reviews

[Jenna Harding]

I really like your poem. I love the part '...spoiling all the lettuce, let us be,' as well as all the different rhyming sounds. You really convey the irritation well. You have real talent -x-