I am sick of painting

blackbirds blue…

trilling a vacuum hose in wind fans

as if the background Musak suits

as if I’d play it otherwise

when frankly, my loop plays for a reason–

it suits me.
 
 
 
with operator slash deejay slash bad pyrotechnics slash amazeballs punctuation which is nevertheless cliché at day’s end, and who cares, since it all sounds the f**king same.

Here we are,

La-la-la-la-la-la-la.

a ba-jah-muh-f**king-try-zillion of us.

Each one of us

(and that’s a lot, in case you didn’t do the math up there)

broadcasting our views,

like–
like…

Like I dunno what…since it’s unprecedented, but try discussing that with someone, parroting that to someone, paraphrasing that to someone, pirating someone’s work–who no one knows, not even the someone Zero

(No one knows everyone except the someone Zero)

Some people!

The class room broadens and narrows, and blindfolded—

sheep follow rams off cliffs in staggering numbers

stag-ger-ing

to me, at least, and who has time for it?

Digital Walls strewn with bathroom graffiti

just a Smart phone shy of originality

(I hope I spelled that right)

proving each of us had a closeted blowhard, all along

Everyone.

(god bless us all, etc.)

Just itchin’ to get out

Even the * good ones *

since blue crow

is crow

with or without paint

and 21 crow salutes proceed like normal

as normal as radiation poisoning will effect, and it’s safe to say no one really knows in the Western World

(bit by bit)

It’s very hush-hush,

and very harsh-harsh

> a big f**king deal <

and at least origami crows have paper going for them, and presumably, instructions at some point.

Not like this…

No.

I’ve taken stock.

(no more fish!)

consumed as I find myself by myself—

a by-product, and not a rewarding one, and quite possibly damaging

(for me)

as intended

>since all systems intend<

…and I am sick of painting blackbirds blue.

©Karen Robiscoe