17

her mouth's a genocide and I’m the foolishly sympathetic sea stacks

that stand there-- immobile-- taking each beating

from the surf, the waves that crash on my dignity,

breaking incessantly. pounding--the only metronome in this rythym-less nightmare

from which I wake alerted by fear, by apathy in a cold sweat,

by the vexatious alarm ringing in my head but not in reality

brain freezes and fatty ice cream can’t cure this affliction

of paranoia and impossible fantasies spliced into tonight’s special

feature film. in the next hour, tune in to the exploitation

of the sparse feelings that remain. too late, power failure,

blackout in a suburban neighborhood, of unacquainted co-inhabitants

living micro-existences, subdivided by all nuances by which one ought
not to prejudice

but hesitations lapse, the grid reboots and the cycle resumes

from square one

focused under overheated incandescent bulbs. beneath a lens and cover slip

but far from observation. neglected, consciously overlooked

a social experiment without intent. just incubated to near eruption

build ups of pressure, internally, externally--accidentally.

the forces of contemporary society. the oceans that dictate

modern survival. the seas the test and manipulate

to the extent of drowning victims drowning in self anguish

mellow, hollow and still un-phased

none to act out the mind's meager plays

dramas without substance, pitifully toyed with by a director

who himself lacks the vision. the mental performances repeat,

common in theme. a complete [and totally expected] about-face of desire

from solidity and steady emotion to relentless urges for superficiality

but yet again the heart pulsates on a different line

and so, like described, spotlight thievery--if only another felt the same

the similar want to spontaneity and the intangible.