Street Idiot

You're bones, Mr. Jones, in the red evening sun!

Still supposing what's yours is for everyone?

What isn't natural you say is "chosen"—

What isn't out must be "closed in"

or else in comes the destruction

of the young?

You say what isn’t walking is on the run—

You say anything talking should be shunned—

like what’s restless can't be brazen?

You're second guessing the kid you’re raisin’

lest he becomes the "monster"

for his son!

In season shift you had his passion spayed

when your deepest tones gave way a darker shade.

What isn't traditional is just evil?

What isn't still is just upheaval?

I guess an open mind only stays open

‘til it fades.

Double guessing what your senses taste

you’ll spit out those seeds and pits with haste.

But what’s tongue-sweet is stomach-sore,

and with a bung in your backdooor,

you'll be toating that thing around like

some disgrace!

Now you say it's the "world so decayed"

and the way we make it is the way it's made—

Know that's not the way it always was

before time distorted your cause

and the gates of clouds came down

on your parade.

NEXT

--Porter Daryl's Poems