Wasted Human Activities

for the Poets, get off your asses

We are here to people the Industrial remains

of the Wastelands. There is no innocence

permitted in the space of polluted breath.  The uncorrupted

smile of an infant offers nothing alluding to

hope in this world of progress.  The children have been

abandoned anyhow, since

grammar schools have been invaded

by tools of rage. Innocent coos

berate the listener—if listening well

enough—about the vast inheritance of

misery bestowed on the unknowing

lips of the child.  In the beginning, it all

seems so promising.  New crocus blossoms burst

out of the barren frost-bitten earth trumpeting in

the vivid purples, oranges, reds, and blues of lush green,

front-yard gardens.  Bright eyes look on to

ripening backyard fruit trees with salivation,

while knowing the soil is too diseased to taste anything

growing out of it.  When the child grows enough to reach

for the apple, rot oozes from the fruit still clinging

to its home, the branch. Sustainability promises to be

a trap of chronology.  Don’t bother looking

in the future it is always changing.  There

is a legacy of dust left over to people.  April’s

acid rain’s corroding the gears that function

in the market called free by some legislative body.  Working

in an economic machine, freedoms dwindle to red

scans and beeps of something thing

that claims to be

need. That is what we know:

mass confusion of wants.  We have determined love is

a platform launching campaigns of distraction

cloaked in a thin veil of hate that goes by the name

Money, so we pay more attention to

the wanton sex-lives of generals more so

than the need for help in the wake of

a disaster usually given a woman’s

name.   Brain-damaged, we consume

ourselves so ravenously the trash shrouds

anything significant.  How much do we need?

The debts of our behaviors have diminished the lives

of trees, and who knows just how much

significance that is.  Nothing

untouched.  Are roots to clutch

dust, what branches grow out of dust?

With systematic blindness, we name externalities.

Memory moves like waves from the ground

of a small town in Witbank, just outside of

Johannesburg, South Africa: a reminder that

there is a burning hell underground

entirely made by man

which promises to make everything blaze

with the thickest hazy smoke screen

while it burns.  That truth burns somewhere

in Pennsylvania too, and the town it’s in has turned

to ghosts. What a profane menagerie

of sin locked in the prison of human

skin. See every rotten contradiction in

the electronic hiss of everything around. This,

my friends, is the evolution of

sound, and how it shapes every knowledge

thought to have been learned.  We forget

what we really don’t know, and never seem to seek it

because we are too damn distracted

by something different. It’s always

been, and we have never learned.  Stories

are stories for the purpose of acquiring

 

what it means to you.  Seething tissue

looking for home, constantly

 

swallowed whole and wrapped with everything,

outside of anything pulsing, that’s what we really possess.

When shall we be as the swallow?  One can suppose never,

given the fact that grace is disdainfully

beautiful.  We fumble through this short space of breath,

pretending to be our own lissome savior of

moments, and choosing blindness

when encountering everything we can’t

see.  Ignoring the sound of everything

around.  Advertisements, they trick us into being

the pill causing the sickness which causes the need

of pills, and they make a killing with that

approach.  We are dying with no

patience.  Hear each breath

with tears.  The backlit plasma screen, our eyes

conceal our own un-translated epitaphs

presented by a simulation

forging the signification of a book

saying it begins with a face.  The face is

just an external expression of

what the heart wishes it could

say.  No one recognizes

the system defining the elegy of our

breeding.  We’ve been prisoners in this

astronomical vacuum of ego.  Be mindful

in the obvious pain hidden by the banal

analgesic named distraction.  The distinction

between mental health and mental

wealth has been blurred, so everything looks smudged

like fine penmanship bleeding from tears on onionskin.

Everything is pixelated, same

as the fragmentation of our being.

 

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2 Comments

  1. I agree. Powerful and needed words. These words stand for all places.

  2. Reblogged this on johncoyote and commented:
    Powerful and useful words by a talented writer. Please read and pass-on.


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