generation of disbelief

it played on a radio down the street.
tales of robbers, gangster and thieves.
and as we hand cuffed our plastic super-heroes.
the voice of your mother echoed through alleyways.
so we ran and flayed through the abandoned paths.
her voice beckoned of reason and wealth.
with every know word, a proposition was made.
like a 60’s record she played.
and skipped with fits of joy.
as your old man sat in his chair.
rocking and smoking his pipe.
barking commands like a drill sergeant.
telling us about the cold war.
i remember the look on his face.
it was the same as it was when he was laid to rest.
the brightest thing that day, despite the rain.
we visited time after time.
and the radio just wants to get me to buy.
the thieves are all petty and the gangster all flakes.
our old time heroes sell out.
your mother can’t breathe on her own.
our arms ache of the daily toll.
stolen ipods for cheap.
but his face.
and his stories.
keep us alive.
so we look out to the streets.
with every waking moment, i breathe deep.
the last words ill ever say are, “we are destined for nothing, but relief”


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