942 Channels of Static

The Joneses cry behind closed doors.
They are tired of setting the pace.
Shotgun retirements come to them
without a break in the race.
No pause for the disgraced.

The house on the hill is a sink hole.
A bottomless well
that begs to be full.
Poisonous picket fences.
Heads on spikes.
There are no paper routes anymore,
just red rusted bikes.

Hiccups *' #'
in the machine.
Displayed as static on screens.
Cracks
snaking towards each other,
like sisters and brothers
embracing
over decaying dams.
Outsourced shepherds
drive lemmings over water
to crash below into
.
.
.
.
the land.

No protection against the surge can be assured.
No power can remain unbroken.
No truth can be spoken.

Honesty found in browning lawns,
and electric shocks from rugs.

Luke Judd 10/8/09