Ignorance and Fear,
as a matter of fact
Everyone is listening and there isn’t any show on the
overarching add-clad silently screaming radio. Everyone is listening for the
beep of an outreached thumb at the end of a line that only exists in the mind.
The tune of the tone forgot where he left his keys & they’re sitting
somewhere along his generic inherent inherited possession trail. The Holy Grail
was 4Loko and the membrane-numbing veil of chumming and thumbing through books
you’ve barely begun and know you won’t see the end of. Pretend does apply to
the existing actuality of a different time…reflected in the bouncing of the
mirrors of the mind before it falls asleep. Today’s type of poets in the
public’s mind, their words have the music to lean on & so, the kids
situated in seats, plug into a present that struggles even to keep up with its
own train of thought, with itself. We try not to melt as, with purpose, we
swarm towards the lamplight emitting the heat. Beseech the common word—haven’t
you heard? Is it so much fun once
you’ve fully begun to melt into the floorboards & spit a sharp thanks to
the shark tank that solidifies churning desires…those of those who will never
bore nor accept the chore of patiently pondering Nevermore. We try not to melt as we flick the tips
of our fingers over the slick Bics that light our cancer sticks & we try
not to melt as we delve into deeper tumultuous waters where the core emits its
force & we try not to melt under the scorching wet heat of the faucet stream
& we scream with delight into a night that promised response but rescinded
at the last moment. Instead, the wind whispers Pinocchio knows best & the
unrest is killing our killing power. The reeling force of remorse rings out in
the wee hours of the morning, without warning, waking one from sleep prior to
the beep of alarm. The clock strikes fifteen minutes late as your eyes open up for
the day’s first time. You’ve born the burden of a wretched disguise you picked
out from an assembly line carefully & with an exquisite amount of ease. Open
the blinds enough to stretch your eyes but not enough to meet a stranger’s
guise. As day breaks, chains take the form of status update terrors and the
next race of the debased tragically beautifully over-sharers takes its place
atop the corner of a stone placed in a very important person’s garden,
ironically. It’s a chronic sleeplessness & there’s so much to be done &
the idea of what is yet to come ascends the ladder laden with a smattering of
differing notions of become. Yet, what’s
done is done & planted, grown, where left is left but not alone.
Bronx / 1/17/14
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