Handmade Paper and Poetry

Modern Day Sculptors

O deep seeded dream:
Money
is in season.
It ripens fat above the heads of candied hair,
in billboards and buildings scraping the sky’s blueness,
the sky’s pureness of the free sun.
Machine-made dream catchers for 9.99 catching the ray’s gold,
stealing its radiance away from
the baby-teethed children,
whose laughter swells with hunger
as they smell money season thriving.
Their guidance drowns in an irrigation system
ineffective in its leaky pipe dreams created by
the modern day sculptors,
who are not the best, who are not divine,
but instead are the Only.

These modern day sculptors who Guess the precise guidelines
of heroes or leaders,
who wake up every rise of the sun
feeling inadequate and imperfect
about the work they have
the ability
to perform within their palms
because others allow it.
And as they perform they remember with shame
striking an enemy or fucking the wrong soul,
yet these Modern Day Sculptors make bonds with the self over and over again,
kiss their flesh fingers and work the world’s minds over
to mold understanding, understanding, a world
deceptively simple
due to its repetitive common use.
Understanding of
the deep seeded dream,
because this world has no time to wait for leaders without flaws or foibles.
Money
is flooding like rain.

The clay of minds is hard and dry with too long a list of priorities.
Bills and cotton-candy colored receipts stacked in one corner
where in the other corner sits the children,
Indian-style,
soaking up information
in any form most entertaining, most engaging, most Disturbing when you think
about how fast the cycle from adult to child can happen.

Someone in between this child-to-adult cycle continues on with
the sculptors and nurturers who keep the floods of Money Season in balance,
with episodes of the free sun patient, showing
its simple rays of warmth.
The heat worms its way into the
freezing winter dreams
of minds in dire need of thawing.
Guidance leaks out, a baby bud
of something without a price tag—music, a tree, a forgotten smell
caught by the youth who are ready, alert, awake, listening attentively
while the old and mis-educated change their minds in their sleep.