the unlikely ones

sitting chairless
rocking
carelessly,
they wrote upon you:
"apathy."
you know the truth about me
and i,
you.
no one cares more
than the caught ones
when jesters observe you.
but, one day he'll tell me
he's a jester.
me too.
we're all philosophers.
we're all a bunch of scientists.
we're all a flock of lovers
waiting for our apocalypse. . .
singing sweet,
singing bittersweet,
picking curses from our teeth.
babied and blue,
disgruntled, but happy --
he
knows what a sap i am
and how bitter that
makes me;
he
displays
holes worn in his pantlegs
between knee & thigh,
guitars tread lightly there
when no one else would try. . .
just try.
anthemic emblems,
we raise our hands high
and shove them
stiffly
in our pockets:
reacquaint ourselves with lint
and
small token fee
(fleeing quickly, by the by).
black is your color
or brown or blue
or red.
this yellow sunset fades
into simpering headaches
when, only when,
it's done with you. . .
bringing potential peace in with the crickets.
bringing agitation in
with some conquering voice
telling you what you already knew.
and all you seek is something
new.
so, so dissatisfied.
sewn full of more than want.
print-dressed,
she swung me
and flew me chest to chest
on you,
your holes near your knees
and your ears,
bleeding still
with the rushing of the disaster:
their creation.
their increasing rationalization,
labeled hysteria
by
the heretics --
we,
and a couple wolfed-down sheep.
dirty, shitty, rotting
and deep.
yeah, baby. you're deep.
knowing all and nothing
and smarting with regret,
guilt,
and the pain we inflicted on others,
reflected back.
we're the priests
dream come true.
god, we'll have to enter baptism
to start anew
or undo. . .
what no one tied.
what no one began.
red & swollen
and, blue & thoughtful.
lipped and serious
with wit,
we're not cruel
i swear, we're not cruel.
we punish ourselves
like fools;
wrinkling, graying, whispering
fools.
playing merrymaker
to the bard
who sings to
the lute
and stages a pinwheel
on guitar.
transcend, and never do i learn.
burning ants under glass,
which one should I be?
the farmer,
the farmed,
the consumer;
all gone

written by beth