We are
a chain gang.
the Internet
our uncommon bond
linking us one by one
–even when you don’t click–
to a global database
masquerading as
an interesting diversion

 
Did I say interesting?
make that:
invasive
color that:
empirical
rephrase that:
insidious

 
instructor
barking out
CMDs
and insisting on
CTRL
of every, every
goose step forward
unseen feet
knotted
to hangdog heads
take
–tripping
misstepping
not noticing
enthralled by
subliminal suggestion
of
a world that doesn’t exist
–doesn’t pass the tactile test
(olfactory either)
but
does move merch.

 
Deemed better for us
than actual interaction, let’s
remember:
there is power in numbers
but weakness in division
which,
link by link
we are.

I spent

2/3 of life

asleep…

living unfettered

for the
 
rest

~behind closed eyes~

who’s to say which world is real

and if said—

with what credibility?

what IS real anymore, dontcha wonder?

you find your own truth

imbue your own meaning

and even mob mentality

is subject to perception…

The best thing about

this fraction of

“real me time”

~besides the flying dreams~

is the knack for waking up

before impact.

before shoes drop

before hands grab

&

hammer falls

Something that doesn’t happen in

the waking world

sleepwalking thru

these smothering

times

the third

(when the “we” doesn’t rouse)

the better realm

in which to believe.

Everywhere you go

these days

you see them repaving roads

getting busy—

aka

one in six guys getting busy

slinging slurry

as the other  five confer

(that traffic’s down)

you see overdue

construction

ahh…

constructing

and bridges

umm…

abridging

and not a lot else

–not a lot of foot traffic

making it an optimum time

to

clean house

and I swear,

for all the world

it feels like

we’ve been fired

a population fired,

and now

they’re prettying up the place

–for some new pop

as yet to be determined

lurking in the

shadow-

-puppets

we’ve become

I prop my

mouth up

lifting dewlaps

I cram teeth into corners

I auto-tune screams

until

the blood-curdling sounds like

lyrical laughter

–no mean trick–

and my far away eyes

grow more distant by the day

masquerading as de rigueur

disinterest

–I’m not taking a selfie after all!

all true expression

dead

(along

with him)

farther than 6 feet under

–gone

. . . .disintegrated. . . .

replaced by a

“that’s acceptable”

caricature

“that’ll do pig”

in peep’s clothing

in a society

where no one

likes a

grumpy Gus, least of all…Gus

and when no one

loves

— in turn

no one is loved

and all that remains is this race to the finish line

festooned in

cheese mirage

surrounded by vermin

(lab and pet)

and a few less nippy rats, as well

from cubby hole

to content

to chaos

to coffin

–where at last

the make believe

ceases,

the guns stop echoing

the crowd stops surging

and fear founded

and faced

–dies.

Prior to

posting,

I arranged

the cheese

just so:

from

biggest to smallest

hardest to softest

stinkiest to mild

adjusting the angle

and lighting, both

–and snapped–

told them to say

“people”