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Segue to the Autodidact

You don't know about that
and you don't want to know about that
so you hit Delete
and the carny ride begins
slowly at first
the barleycorned crowd cheering
up close and personal
snow falling in sheets
reminding you of the last time
and the time before that.
Smitten with interiors - a metaphor
according to the catalog
for unfulfilled longing -
you, wide-eyed, slack-jawed,
decide to re-shoot the final scene
without backup
the ponderous critiques
sclerotic and sepia'd.
Time now to plow out.
Time to take to the highway.
Recharge the mise-en-scène.
All eyes on the skies.
The clock's ticking sticking.
The beats beating the juicer
to the punch bowl
crop dusting taking on new meaning.
Informed by cable, several jig
speak of the good ol' days
iPhones and iPads and iWhatnots
stuck in traffic.
The debate continues
over what whomsoever's words mean.
I did this. I did that.
You however want to to do this
insisting on a raincheck
searching your pockets for the stub.
Sans fanfare.
Sans battlecry.
You want to just do it.
The cineplex spilling into the street.
Talking heads demanding
seconds, thirds, fourths.
You will know them when you see them.
And you will let them know
when you know.
Trust in the text (there is no other).