A gray bearded petition

of the flannel business suit for change

is ignored as if dipped in dung,

as if rendered subhuman

by circumstance and time,

we see the well fed bellies

and their trembling cigarettes

poised between pampered soft hands,

we feel no air to breath,

only a gulping invisible vacuum,

some incompressible sorrow pulls

all that exists into a void:

everything vanishes.

A few are left, have a chance to change,

to start over,

but they don't.

By Rich Furman

He hears voices from the dark,

understands that there really is

nothing to be understood,

rests his mind on laugher we do not hear.

He is only attached to the bed

upon which he rests,

the clothes upon his body,

or the humid breeze

that calls him from the street

to conquer all the gods.

We who know the importance

of that which we create,

that which sends us like scurrying rats,

groveling dogs for supper's discarded bones:

Call him, insane.

By Rich Furman

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