Nowhere But Down
By Paul R. Abramson
I have no traction
no satisfaction
no girlie action
And why
Why
Does death
have to be
the surrender
of a Resistant will
where hate
Now chosen
and cultivated
Has become a way of life
One funeral
at a time
Where ambiguity
Has traded places
with truth
and the pulse
Of triviality
Remains inscrutable
Where veneer
Is fetishized
As reality has fled
And poverty persists
Through the art
Of manipulation
And the extinguishable regrets
Of being down
Means to surrender
Any temptation to rise again
As police officers speak
But say very little
Except with pistols
Which have no voice at all
But do imply; incidentally, at least
There is no place but down
That strange comingling of poverty and hate.