for the Poets, get off your asses

We are here to people the Industrial remains

of the Wastelands. There is no innocence

permitted in the space of polluted breath.  The uncorrupted

smile of an infant offers nothing alluding to

hope in this world of progress.  The children have been

abandoned anyhow, since

grammar schools have been invaded

by tools of rage. Innocent coos

berate the listener—if listening well

enough—about the vast inheritance of

misery bestowed on the unknowing

lips of the child.  In the beginning, it all

seems so promising.  New crocus blossoms burst

out of the barren frost-bitten earth trumpeting in

the vivid purples, oranges, reds, and blues of lush green,

front-yard gardens.  Bright eyes look on to

ripening backyard fruit trees with salivation,

while knowing the soil is too diseased to taste anything

growing out of it.  When the child grows enough to reach

for the apple, rot…