Inside the hopelessly outdated mid-80's
technopop, a graveyard's giggling
in between inhalations of cocaine,
Kristal, and any degenerate nobody
willing to trade the skin of their body
for a well-lined whole in their soul.
Every snatched corpse snickers
at our tar-framed memorial;
every palm tree shakes its coconuts
waiting for used Chevys to return;
the rest of the campus barrio just grins,
knowing a fool when they see one.
You'd think a stolen childhood
and a lost adolescence would buy
a better visitor's pass than the
nanosecond furlough drawn.
You'd think every frostbitten body
deserved more than an hour
(or two) in the sun.
The problem is, justice depends on
basic belief in beings
any sane madman wouldn't give
a second thought to,
the very moment they stared at the
'Welcome to Arizona' highway sign
and found out little Virginia
is the one who should have been
locked up a long time ago.
Copyright (c.) 2009 by Adam Henry Carriere. All Rights Reserved.