The Demands Of Our Poetry.... Poem by RIC BASTASA

it looks like a race of letters
there is this old typewriter writing everyday
till nighttime till dawn
and the numbers have become so many
looking tired and
clumsy

it so appears that the words do not experience any meaning at all
what is it to be a word in this
sentence? what is the meaning of such a literal existence?
is there a feeling between two conjunctions?
are the prepositions making the necessary links?
what clinching statement are you trying to
impress upon this
twink? there are no more stars in the heavens,
the moon has faded like a blue jean pair of pants,
the sun looks like a yellow button
and the universe has reduced itself into a plain white shirt
worn by an irresponsible teeter.

where are these evens leading us to? a devastated part of this island
speaks of the logical suicide,
ah, damned, the pigeons are not homing
and the chickens no longer roost on the same branch of the tree

indeed, the word do not entice anymore to live a good life
the whole novel is not new, it is melodramatic still
detached from that tsunami reality, pure soap, pure tearjecker

i wish to a truthful concern
one that touches not just the heart but the hair
one that surrenders and not just win
one that cares and cares and cares and cares
till the end......