The Rip Post                                                                                              

Treadmill Tune
Moods yield illusions
And we’ve got the
Numbers to prove it.

Even break, didja
Feel the earth shake
Or was it just another
Of a long line of fakes?

You want to call it
Conspiracy, breathing
Together becomes a
Crime, watch your rhyme
Boy, they’ll steal your thyme.

Clabbermilk stopgaps,
Think you’ve got your
Chops back, but what
You’ve got is a bunch
Of hopped-up thoughts
Screaming for the rain.

Autumn’s majesty of
Blown-away leaves
And half-opened graves
Point the way to Pound’s
Lamentations, Fields’
Confabulations and Poe’s

Leastways that’s as
Best as I can recall just now.
Take a look at the portraits
In your Hall of Heroes,
Long-closed up, but how
You used to marvel at
Genius and creations

Now you stride upon the
Treadmill, marching in
Place with the rest of
The heathens to perdition.

It could have been better
It will never be the same,
Warmed by Prometheus’
Flame, we yet neglect
To turn to the light.
The world falls into fright,
forgoing Eden’s delight.

---Jack Oakes 10/15/2007



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