The Tunnel

Photo from Real Edinburgh

We are at the end of it.
The wrong one.
The end where the light is at 
backs, not noses.
Distant and daunting,
lives’ turbulence apparent.
It is shitty here
every day-to-day.
Day-to-day.

The crime rate rises
and young lovers fall
short of shared 
orgasms. No, she’s not 
carrying anything besides 
the extra weight but
thanks for the luggage. They 
found plane parts
on the ocean floor
but not all of them and
none of the people. Neo
bigots slur gay and black:
consider it proof
of progress begotten. Nursing school
didn’t work out And
about those vacation days…
Sorry but the cup runneth 
dry (ice melted, too) and
you can’t drink either. Webster’s
dic buckles to slang
tho he who speaks it won’t find 
work at the drive thru. And let’s not 
forget our overlords.
Those empowered
that we put there. 
Again.

We’re hungry
even if we ate.

We’re tired
even if we slept.

We cracked the glass
on another cell phone.

It gets worse.
There will be so many robots.
There is a lump in our lover.
There are children in cages.
There might be another Hitler.
And there can be no other way — 
no other direction— 
than trekking down the tunnel.

Although.

In that light — 
the one on backs
that silhouettes faces
in shadows — it casts 
an inherent belief
un-mustered, that
almost all people
whether dying or poor 
or slaving or serving,
women in the money,
men of chiseled form,
cynics and miscreants
across the board
can agree and will be,
we will barely utter,

We don’t wanna make a murder.

So applaud
this the truth, say aloud
We don’t wanna make a murder.

And believe it
(please applaud)
because on this 
we agree — cry out!
We don’t wanna make a murder!

Applaud, because at least we can for that.