Whitman's World
By m glenn
Whitmans World The Leaves have been replaced by discarded hamburger wrappers and bits of newspaper misery. The fields where someone elses children played, the tree-lined roads to happy places, have gotten a terminal case of strip-malls. Smokestacks and power poles stand guard over glass children, throwing rocks. The righteous, those who have a bit of the truth, and all the gentle maniacs have been downsized and economized. The poets are powerless. The dreamers have insomnia. The artists suffer broken thumbs. The leaders have deep pockets. The hopeful are at all-nite groceries consuming. The Revolution has eaten all of Whitmans World piece by piece by piece. His song has been digitized and pillaged and raped and imprisoned. A song which is heard once and soon beaten from our foggy heads. Hum a few bars and we can fake it, we can twist it into something useful. Like hatred, like terroism, like slavery, like steel. Whitmans World is under the dirt, buried alive, beneath the Tree of Progress. Written October 12th, 2001 © on Oct 11 2001 04:28 PM PST 0 • 10
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"Whitmans World..."