110518A
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I miss those days,
when the bulletin came in the mail,
as a reliable document.
It gave a sense of certainty
as to what was happening.
You could plan ahead.
No last moment changes.
The whole month,
and sometimes six months,
at an immediate glance.
You knew where you were going,
and you really felt
that you were getting something
as to whatever it is you paid for.
The regularity
of the milkman, the mailman,
the breadman.
If it was in the newspaper
you could count on it.
No last minute uncertainty
as to change of plans.
Now a tweet half way
changes everything,
and everyone goes scurrying
in different directions,
The schedule is last minute
and subject to perpetual change
even after that.
No point counting on it,
something else will always happen,
and no one takes responsibility
for any inconvenience it might cause.
Lucky if you do not get cut off
for complaining
about absolutely anything.
It takes a mountain of digging
to find a simple answer.
It takes a genius brain
to sort through all of that,
to verify anything as actually true,
and no one delivers
on anything you really need.
Now they market cellular devices,
more complex than Chinese puzzles,
and you can spend a lifetime
trying to untangle them.
Always a new problem to solve,
when all you needed to do in the past
was to dial a number.
Call it cellular mysticism,
that they insist can save you,
but it is never certain from what.
You will know when you get the bill
that is larger than you are,
that it is now the most expensive religion
ever invented by mankind.
Made of flesh or hard wired,
is no longer considered reliable.
Leaving it all up to the ghosts
migrating en-mass in the aether.
People living seance lives,
chasing disembodied spirits
that bounce off the ionosphere.
Mumble fuck, jumble fuck,
mass communication
of all the worst sorts of misinformation,
and the digital grapevine is so fast
it can turn anything to mud
in less time than it takes
to put on a blind fold and light a cigarette.
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110518B
-----------
I knew I was a monster
when she ran from the room,
in a condition of sudden fright.
It is not that I did or said anything
untoward or wrong.
It is all about digging ditches,
and people who love ditch diggers.
A new definition of salt of the earth
as to those who choose to know nothing
beyond stinking and drinking.
In these cities of digitized night,
with their synthetic happiness,
you can go for days,
without chancing to find anything
that resembles civilization.
The architecture stands solid,
Brutalist and monumental.
On the other hand
what used to pass as souls
totter as bombed out ruins.
Learning to be evil
comes at a younger age,
as the new child mortality rate.
Dead from the video game up,
said the coroner's statistics.
To teach is to live in fear,
of deviating into cultural subjects
as to classrooms taken over
by a barbarian invasion,
that refuses to be challenged.
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110518C
-----------
Confined to the prison
of your self,
is only somewhat preferable
to being confined
with people you do not want
to suffer.
Flip that coin over and over,
as many times as you like,
and it comes to the same answer.
You get plenty of heads,
and some intimations of tail,
but the results are far from attractive.
Tabloid and glossy mag rumours,
that there are other lives,
but you don't know where or how
that really might be.
other than hidden under cover,
where you are invisible and inaudible.
You waited for a call to freedom,
but the call never came,
You can wait that way
until your carcass becomes bone,
and the last insect loses interest.
The screen is a bullet
that has hit you right between the eyes.
You can feel it every day,
carving at your meat head,
cutting away anything precious.
It feels about the same
as what a soup bone must feel,
when pulled from the pot,
and thrown to the dog to chew on
as something that is all used up.
You want to get away,
but you have no idea where to go.
Search available listings forever
and you won't find any answers there.
They don't publish that type of information.
Sort it all out your self,
and no one really helped with any of that.
It is only a worse mess than it was before,
and it can only get much worse
each time you go at it.
Life is too much like shadow boxing,
to knock your self out on it.
Everyone always loves the blues,
but no one loves you
if you are crying them.
The friends you used to have
where the same as sparrows
clustered chatter around stale bread,
always pulling something to pieces,
in habitual time and space.
You want to jump holograms,
breaking the time stream again,
but this time getting away,
to where it really means something,
as to breaking free.
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110518D
------------
That once upon a time,
in that alternate universe
that we do not really live in,
sincerity
of all those “I love you”
statements of misspent fact
that come to nothing,
in individual and collective terms,
of wasted reference.
Remembering reluctantly
how it really felt
and what it was about,
contrary to all arguments.
Arguments seeking to redefine
and convince differently,
as to restructuring
any sense of remaining reality
to their alternate standards.
Most people break down
into believing the contentions
that are put forward that way.
A few are labelled too defective
for any recombinant process
to be sufficiently effective.
Something wrong in their brains
that defies any mechanic
throwing their wrench into it.
It might have been bliss
of some mundane and lasting sort,
if anything had come together,
rather than always flying apart,
according to different natures
and contrasting intentions.
The unrealistic quality of day dreams,
presenting the broken paradigm,
of stories with beautiful endings.
The brain wash pablum
of all those children's stories
that all have the same happy endings
of happily ever after lives.
Many never really needing or wanting
anything much more than that
and their high school sex drives
turned into more rigorous habits
that they hold beyond rational doubt.
Chemicals that can keep you going that way
until your heart decides to stop beating,
and they bury your erectile function.
Something to arouse the grave diggers,
but it was never much more than that anyway.
They say that and money to spend
is all that there really is,
unless you want to buy into the intangibles
of noncollectable insurance policies.
Too often it is that poignant moment
when someone has chosen someone else,
and you give them the last rites
of one last reminder of “I love you”,
at the final parting of ways,
carving a tombstone into memory.
You won't do that ever again,
but it was their own final choice,
and some choices are forever.
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110518E
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An absurdity of unreasonable constraints,
as to natures and sustenance
commingled by contrary arrangements
continually kept under immanent threat.
Clashing with one's own maintenance
and that necessity as to rigid secrecy,
of every opposed and thwarted desire.
A compounded suffering,
apparently meant to free the body
by incarcerating the mind.
As if that can beat its way out
of one or another cloistered militancy
where everyone marches in tune
with the rhythm of the same drum.
The prism shatters light into colours
and what colour is your reality ?
Reminiscences of white light, white heat,
and being completely steamed
by the pressure always being on.
Your armour always being tested,
ironically maintaining a mental shell.
Recognizing that it all stimulates
nothing more than a need for novelty.
That passion to go completely astray
in bizarre variants of satisfaction,
as long as legislation permits it,
and it does not get you put away
for being too far over the line.
Intensifies some deviant passions
to stretch the cultural envelopes,
even if there are no rewards given,
thus spared making any speeches
of marginal explanations
for delving into irrational acts
of emotional and somatic content.
Hating being continually rational,
and those endless arguments
that it always gets one into.
A most disagreeable condition
of too many conditional statements,
needing to all be reconciled,
the way accountants do reconciliations.
In one world that you exist in
everything always has to be explained,
in accurate detail.
In the other world,
explanations do not mean anything
and you can have a good time,
escaping the tyranny of reason.
The ultimate refusal to surrender,
to what has become the enemy,
dictating every little detail
as to any terms and conditions,
until you want to die
to any further negotiations,
proven a pointless exercise.
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110518F
-----------
I number things,
because no one gave me a title,
in their persistent terror
that I might become recognized.
Another deplorable way
of being made an example of,
and being given larger responsibilities
to consume your remaining time.
In some cases
a not entirely objectionable outcome,
when it opens desirable doors,
always too much to hope for.
One of the wore tyrannies is
whom you have to spend your time with.
Balancing on that razor
is sure to cut you up completely.
Wondering who determines access,
as if everywhere you actually want to be,
is another pearly gate,
under similarly strict control.
You cannot even go to hell,
in any way that you might freely choose,
without running up against them,
asking for your membership card.
If you really want whatever it is,
it is certain to be priced sky high,
outside your budgetary allowance
and beyond your deficit spending limit.
No fairy godmothers or rich uncles
in that sort of game,
to spare you from various bad ends
of dangling too long on your tether,
If only you could marry someone
whom you cannot find a way to meet.
Cards being put on the table,
no one seems to want to play your hand.
Nothing but getting worn out,
in one or another contrary way,
that really gets you nowhere
except alone with the same.
You speculate who the cat really is
who set the diabolical mouse trap,
that plays on your feelings,
trying to get desired reactions.
You cannot give it what it wants,
unless it gives you what you can want.
Perhaps a no win situation,
that you might chance to die in.
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