by Michael Plante

Riding the coattails of insanity,
grasping the tail of the purple elephant
licking a silver-plated spoon made of led
transfixed by the wick’s amber.
Good night America
the doors are closed.

Outsiders live on the fringe
sleeping on vacant sofas
office workers shuffle their feet
pushing their souls through paper-shredders.
God is a noun poured into a glass
or a line of cocaine at a dinner party.

While you and the wife were at the orgy
your children grew up eating poptarts
shooting their guns off into the night
seeking a better high than the 70’s.
And when the dawn came the next day
the highest body count won the game.

Prescriptions pump the veins of zombie America
mini-van mommies seeking more
crack dealers replaced the popular phone booths
making deals in a suburbia cesspool
pornsite daddies seeking daughters.
Google this mother-fucker.

The show is over and its’ time to go home
the tired hands can no longer keep
a crumbling empire from imploding
the moral fabric was eaten by moths
long before the flag was raised.

Goodnight America,
the doors are closed.

All compositions that appear on The Poet’s House are composed by Michael Plante and are subject to copyright.

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