Trying to come up with the most legible story line
to make it all make sense
the Cartesian coordinates for the remains of our days
pages from a flipbook
stuck to the ceiling of a makeshift hut
in a remote area of consciousness . . .
An idea of who you are and what you will be . . .
How now the edited endgame? . . .
As if you have become a blustery winter wind
a tetchy iconoclast
waiting in lines increasingly bottlenecked
shelves orphaned
cranking the engine of false starts
in a monochromatic world
amenable to dropdown menus of altered egos . . .
Then of course there's the perfunctorily
fact-checking name-checking holding forth
as if crossing the River Styx in a kayak . . .
You emerge from the underworld of basements
the protocols of mimes
struggling to voice an objection
to the end-all be-all of all
with a weary sense of satisfying
a tiresome poetic-novelistic balance . . .
The augmentations should be refreshed post-haste . . .
You assume the polar opposite
the driver's seat awaits your strategy
always a welcomed if exasperating experience . . .
Birds of a feather fail . . .
The nonesuch among us are less and less
a gasp of survival
as the climate zooms in
with countless PSAs ignored by the polloi
who immerse themselves in screens
covered in gabardine for the sake of nothing . . .
We have run out of Blue Books
with which to memorialize the streams of consciousness
tricking through the wastelands of now
the idea howled out of the room had it been suggested by
first-person shooters captured on camera at checkout . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment