We are a generation possessed
of concrete hearts
poured wet and gritty
into a ragged hole in the ground
and stabbed with a wooden pole,
like some pasty faced Hollywood vampire,
supporting banners proclaiming
our commercial allegiance
until it is struck down
by a drunken driver
and we are buried, disposed,
supposed-preserved forever
in uselessness, concrete globules underground.
We are the rock that is not rock
running down the middle of your street
the roadway for the have-nots
when they beg for what you have got
when they cry out just to eat
while some other brother
props up a sign
with a catchy line
and declares rare charity his domain
deftly hijacking the gravy train.
We are the mottled gray skeletons
plastered over marrow of steel
and clothes in flesh of glittering glass
where the world makes its blood deal
while we empty the trash
and hammer away at entry
level data entry
jobs until our minds scream
for just a little change
while our pockets fill up
with your pocket change.
We are a generation
without our own identity
or even our summer of love
poured into the cracks between
like a heavy load
but I warn you
you cannot flush
concrete down
the world's commode.
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