OverTheRainbow

sometimes

when my fingers don't itch to write

and the keyboard is a faraway memory, 

i curse myself

curse the world

because i feel like poetry is pointless.

why

do my hands know exactly how

looking up at the sky,

i can understand

why ancient people thought

the earth was flat

and the sky was a dome

our own personal snow globe

only,

we're trapped in it.

now we know

When the rivers turn to blood,

we will know

that our violence,

our unending savagery, our cruelty,

things we pass off as normal,

has gone too far.

When the rivers turn to blood,

we will know.

little lions

poking up through the sidewalk cracks

little lions

rambling along the sides of hills

little lions

puffy yellow stars shining like the sun

how the wind blows over the river

quite a curious thing, isn’t it,

the way the water rolls in time

with the wind’s hushed music

that echoes

in (prefix):

not

(not what?

not right, not here,

not true, not what?

come on,

dictionary,

be specific.)

subordinate (adjective):

placed in, 

or occupying