by Mick Hugh
For three years I’ve sat up in my tree,
in the shade of dreams,
and the roots have slowly
been drying up.
For three years catching wafts
of the vinegar and rotted fruits,
of our American Dream,
recessive trait of responsibility.
Who knew at the age of 22,
and itchy skin for sunshine,
that a Fortune 500 would be their Jubilee?
What pederast had it out at 18
to be a financial manager
at corporate Walgreens?
The treelimb you sit on breaks,
and the fall takes a few months.
Rat cages and sychophants
fed twice as much for listening.
The heroics of monotony.
Remember your days
reading textbooks at your desk,
group projects and algebraic thinking:
Little Davey you’ve been cultivated for this.
No need for you to sweat callouses and rough hands,
they’ve got another desk for you.
Pear-shaped where the body-fat masses on their seats,
little economic engines-that-could.
Genetically modified flowers
blossom without sunlight,
without color or stamens;
a horse without nuts
makes an easier ride.
Have a house,
have a kid,
Pad your stable.
The American frontier
is a corral on Main Street,
and daydreams of Carnival Cruises.
Masturbate on lunch break,
a few white tears
in a bathroom stall.
100 million limp-necked stiffs
have cordoned-off unnecessary risks.
Welcome to your stable, kid.
Mick Hugh is a writer for Sudden Denouement, and the groundskeeper at Mick’s Neon Fog.