The angels on floaters fall
to the skies with rigor mortis eyes,
seeing is never believing.
Arms spread out as wings
we once had as birds
sailing the turbulence of dust highways
and skeletal trees. Roman churches
roaming home carrying pocket holes
of dreams bound as blankets
to soothe us and our somatic burns.
From here view deepening clouds heavy
the seasonal fabrics
of Heaven exploding.
In distance beyond barriers
of this urban safari,
under shade of bus shelter
a ragged elder-female
chews, as "naked lunch", insects groping
her gums; mouth sharpens into grimace.
On overpass, angels preach down
from concrete pulpits onto traffic clogged
motorways; the new congregation
herded to a standstill.
Not one believer among you
in this exhibit of splintered dreams
and terror infants skinning wings off angels.
The angels on downers rise
to the earth with wings of dirt,
deny free will through constant control;
perform for others entertainment
compelled through corrected thought.
This is our fake Tropicana almost organic
our pride where family is clinical bred.
I have stumbled on the trail
surrounded by chemical lepers feeding
disease in urinal rivers
and parasite stench habitats.
Trailing in tiredness, I want not to continue.
The yawning lion screams silence
at its captures, too sedated
to protest, all fight leeched from its spirit
with no lover at hand.
Within my enclosure, the angels are attached
by umbilical, numbly I swing content with
tire tricks. The children cheer as adults
constrained have paid to observe not interact.
Unaware of their cages, of being observed
in false environment, always have
believed that this is natural.