Psychotropic baldness waking our minds with stems pointing toward the moon.

Underneath continents we swim a nightmare under palm trees.

Rescued ashore, we mate with our beautiful native women.

When national greed guarantees a popular payback—we accept as we are obliged.

The nation roars for its boundaries back carving up pieces of meat on continental plates.

War again. Seen before.

Casting its head into neglected doors.

People bound, lines made, those on the front lines sliced away.

Along the road psychotropic heads bob up and down at a souvenir shack on the side of town.

Mexican sun, Indian ritual a spectacle for certain to see.

Copyright

John Rubens December 26, 2014