Out in the Wasteland

is it possible to write

and still maintain integrity,

or am I only fooling myself?

do people really want to hear

mysterious confessions,

hidden deep within

crazed, carnivorous caverns?

lost fantasies,

beyond moral redemption;

who cares?

you want drama?

you want unspoken promises?

you want flesh-filled, flailing

among pieces of uncontrollable stench?

you want madness in the shape of art?

I hear they’re having a sale at Walmart;

questions, questions, questions,

searching, searching, searching,

one surprise after another,

most never get past the door,

some barely hear the answers,

others quietly bury their head

in the burning, sinking sand,

then there are the rest;

sleeping,

eating,

shitting,

locked-up alone

in silent solitude,

never making a sound,

never giving a clue;

dying without a chance;

that’s how it is,

out here in the wasteland,

the price

of doing business;

the cost no one

can afford.

.

.