The Prodigal Daughter

1.
here it is
presented for the audience
on a polished platter of silver
limbs and organs spread out
but he wouldn’t even know what this means
it’s all so thinly veiled
if you would just look at it
the way that’s the easiest

and there is no such thing as a silent river
unless it’s hidden inside of us all
the silent river is what
we bury to look strong
it is the loved ones we must have left behind
it is the emotion leveled out
that is the untapped source of all rage

it laid so heavy on my chest
all of the things that happened
in the past two years
i once told my mother that things came in twos
i live my live by two year intervals lately
because they’re most like how long
i remember one lasting

it was time to come back to this
little self indulgence
i was never very smart
but some how no one ever caught on
i only know people
and the people’s reaction
and how they should maybe calm themselves
because it all just comes to an end
but i’m tired of hiding
i’m tried of not being what i was
which was somewhat optimistic, but also realistic

he laid his hands on her
he said he didn’t want it to hurt
but it always hurts when you put
your fingers in that deep and then try to pull them out

2.

and we can play the office horses
we can bet on who will be where
and the timely manner in which they eat lunch
we can get into each others’ heads
and twist normality into jealousy and fear

but you wouldn’t change for me
and no one else would either
people don’t change
they just continue to grow older in their paths
the courses they take

i read somewhere that einstein did not believe in chance
that we were all set on a course through time
and that everything happens the way it should
which can be a very comforting thing

and those stars do not care who we are
and those people do not either
so why should we
why should we so closely scrutinize ourselves

3.
people seem to want to group themselves off
either subconsciously or not
but it is comforting to have a commonality
though i suppose that’s why i feel different
i suppose being comfortable makes me
feel uncomfortable

i can see the cityscape from my window
the cityscape, which i can not seem to escape
what’s five years give or take?

to only know the same groups of people
running in the same circles in the
city of brotherly love
where we cut stop signs to steal bicycles
for drugs
and we kill small children and police officers
accidentally with our guns
where we holler at each other rather
crudely

>>>>>>>>>BEGIN TRANSMISSION:
                            outside a woman wails(stop)
                            pleading her case for the way in(stop)
                            (now night in the city of brotherly love
                               during the holiday of hearts)(stop)
	
ouija board keystrokes
the machine a conduit for
human thought. thought. thought.
	
communication face to face existing
in pockets of commerce and daily
interaction hindered by technology
	
                                  we can relate(stop)
	
a man across an ocean can
look into a screen and see her
holding his infant son to the screen,
faces staring and blinking back
at him while his brothers are dying
in arms against men of another faith.
it's beautiful and the only time they can
see eachother but it's nothing like
the real touch of a loved one. 
	
the real touch of a stranger
in a throng of a musical concert
sweat drenched bodies glisten in
communion with each other in the
a shared commitment to one group
of people that they can connect to
	
                            outside a woman wails(stop)
                            pleading her case for the way in(stop)
                            (now night in the city of brotherly love
                               during the holiday of hearts)(stop)
	
handshakes and pardons in
busy streets to propagate
human thought. thought. thought.
	
they are trying their best
to wear the new technology and
communicate that idea to each other
	
                                  we can relate(STOP)
	
                                  :END TRANSMISSION<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

man up ladies
man up men
and the ladies do whatever the fuck they want
they are selling a mouth
or some eyes
or some cunt
but she collects men
like the ears around the neck
of an indian killer
whose moral code is more than lacking

The transmission series still needs to be finished. Here is number 8:

	
>>>>>>>>>BEGIN TRANSMISSION:
			    plastic bag wreathed trees(stop)
                            reaching with great care to touch the city(stop)
                                          (water frozen in action from foun-
                                           tain heads in little italy)(stop)
	
a dull and mild winter
suffocating the inhabitants
men and women continue on tracks
into submission. submission. submission.
	
we are forced into them like
a submissive into a wooden box
buried under dirt and tied
delicately with synthetic twine
	
                                  we have roles(stop)
	
there seems to be a shortage
of what nostalgia deemed men and women
perhaps because there never really were any
and we only play ourselves if we can
but she says that if that's the case
then how did we move out of the cave
into buildings that touch the sky?
	
(0r)the sexes we force ourselves
into are the roles played
by generations before and our
parents dead relatives now
made irrelevant by current times
	
			    plastic bag wreathed trees(stop)
                            reaching with great care to touch the city(stop)
                                          (water frozen in action from foun-
                                           tain heads in little italy)(stop)
	
nature is not made by man
who only plays a small part
in the spectrum of many parts played
from submission. submission. submission.
	
there is a gray cloudless sky
over city dwellers' heads
uncaring what they've perceived
to be forced into
	
                                  we have roles(stop)
	
                                  :END TRANSMISSION< <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<