My Generation

We speak left-handed,
Words reflecting in our eyes
Like the half moon in this hollow
Half-winter lake, stirred,
As it were, by the Spirit's descending,
And we slip our bodies in,
If only in our minds,
Like ice cubes into tea,
Mellowing feeble March
By the diffusion of our Voices.

We walk left-handed
In the holes between
Footprints toward the sky
We see falling,
Feet angled into new agendas
Like a fascist in sackcloth
And ashes singing the national
Anthem backwards through the butt
End of a lit cigarette
As certain octaves slip into coffins.

We think left-handed
While science tells us we are
LD bi-polar psychos,
Statistics shoved into pidgeon holes
(and it reaks of pidgeon dung here),
The glitch in the program
That freezes up the mainframe
And steals your identity
(But we are only stealing it back)
To buy expensive plastic surgery.

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