A dedication to a bus driver that will never know
blank paper makes as much sense
as the music of turnstiles
constant inflow and outflow
eddies of confusion
fail to distract the frustration
and the odious comfort of mesmerized pacing
brings little solace
as
insanity clasps the narrow ledge
of its opposite sister
masses of flesh ooze their way
to compartmentalized hopelessness
a man makes love to his whisky bottle
amidst the red eyed concert crowd who mumble by the greedy chocolate smeared faces of wretches
who annoy mimic telescreened adventures
Eros remains helpless
joylessly suffocating
while Thanatos
gleefully offers an exit
and
frustrated young poets
sit in buses
unable to meet the 5 Year Plan of literature
futilely attempting to explain all
Robert K. Stephen
