History Fucks Us All

Dear poet
speak a language that can both transcend
and tap into time and place
but history still fucks us all
in this little space;
the most observant poets die
leaving their hopes and lies behind,
framed in pretty, petite, pithy sentences,
and what lives on as their bones rot dry
is the sounds of the pretentious;

uplift the downtrodden;
sell the dream we are all privileged
just by being human;

but what has changed
with each follow-up generation?
nothing but a different why
or a deformity of back
as history bends us over
and fucks us in the sack
of time and rust
and the dust of skin and bone

it's an intimate relationship
that leaves you all alone

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