A VERY ROUGH DRAFT

IN THE PAINFOREST Apathy is the shame of our generation. It is the time to act, before the curtain closes. Unchain the Mountains whisper in their ears to cut and run. Spring the clouds the white the gray the black tell them to scamper and fast. Pardon the forests suggest they uproot and skedaddle, leave. Discharge the fields, the hills the valleys pay their cab fare and send them on their way. Absolve the waters, open the faucets, everywhere drain it, all of it, drain it dry. Wind-up the fliers, the crawlers, the prancers, the hoppers, the jumpers, the leapers, the dancers, the runners the swimmers, give 'em a push watch 'em escape, scoot, vamoose. Tell the piper to bring the children play his magic flute, its time to blow this Popsicle stand time to mission to somewhere else. Deflate it all don't bother packing dash, trot, speed walk exit stage left or right. Abandon what you can't grab. Throw a lit match on the way out. Let it all implode in its own gasses This book Has reached its last chapter, its last page, its final word . When the stench of rotting flesh subsides give me a holler. then, we will return. Armand Hamouth

MONOTONE

HIGHWAYS IN THE CLOUDS In every sound of the crickets at night In the humidity that floats the air So is the sweat on my brow So is the music of my want Dreams hidden in the vast wasteland of the desert Prick like the cactus plants that inhabit it. A butterfly in a child’s net. My life hums in a monotone of nothingness. My heart cries the voyage of my own tears. Speak their words, as they splatter, and evaporate on the blazing hot concrete. Destined to abuse and lose my abilities, I live in a hell of my own making, Save the images, I create on the highways of the clouds of my solitude. Armand Hamouth