Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The angry man is having tea
his flaming flowers wilted
long ago in his hot house of being.
(Light strikes tips of grass –
yellow glowing greened spots
beyond the enclosing windows)
A politic boils, and wanes with
so much discontent flowing,
the walls of Byzantium falling,
so much he thinks is wrong now
that was good and right once.
The fragility of the angry man
colors his room in gray thought
in complexities, of questions unmade,
as raw wide brush strokes across
banal landscapes, his blob of liberation
is only a thought, a move undone.
He’s stuck, this man resenting
striking out, his loss an eye
seeing less, just one thought
thriving, his freedom a curse
a presidency all tawdry, gone.