Sixteen hooves clatteredToward Pennsylvania Ave.,Sixteen hundred. Pale Rider approached theGolden king of fire, whoBowed his head and knelt. Weeping and gnashingHis teeth, he cried “at
This Way To a Dusty Death
From Shakespeare’s Macbeth: Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,To the last syllable of recorded time;And all our yesterdays
They would me forfeit My lovely SUV and Drive an old Civic They want to take what I’ve earned because they can’t see My value.
Drove I into theHospital parking lot andThree women stood by The wall, enshawled andWailing. Against the wall theyBeat their fists, and they Entreated their GodFor
For years have I borneThis sword, to surrender itWould permit the years To accumulate,Would then I die. But now wouldI lay it down at Your
To Whom It May Concern
Was your mummy’s tomb Despoiled? Was your sacred Burial plot robbed? We can all agree That mistakes were made. That’s why Pencils, erasers … You