i is for ism

There were years gone by questioning nothing. Not even all the dirty ugly predicated isms in plain sight.

Kids who grow up in any kinda consistent environment, no matter the level of dysfunction, ascribe their acceptance upon it. As did i.

Then came barreling upon me, an expansiveness i had never known. I wanted to stay tight. Small. To know your name when i saw you in the streets. For you to know mine.

To keep our hard earned reps.
Our shared histories.

The disturbance in my atmosphere saw me smaller, lesser known, more fearful, lesser understood anymore.

I could hide in the laundry bed of a thousand other passerbys. No one but my mom might miss me.

I might not even miss me, myself.

For who was i formed out of icy isms in a blind microcosmic state of purified disaster?

Advertisements

modern thoughts

The numb required affective treatment.

The emotional burst and asunder, as shot from the gun,

left a hole only silence could fill.

Now they come for their scheduled fair dosing of real hell all fucked over. Through one of any of the senses. Pick one. This is not no rocking chair turn of pages, in some dim lit dusty living room. No. Too dead end for this century. Seems most imaginations are no longer built to overcome that kinda scene…more like efficient, careful, non-impact modern cars. Modern thoughts. Compartmentalized. Prepackaged, prelabelled, shipped. Big brown cardboard boxes picked up by big brown burly men. Taken to big brown trucks, double parked. Modern. All Quiet and eco-friendly. From sender to sendee.  No more sweet thundering like some mid-century chevy. Without any smoke trails, train whistles become   uselessly gigantic like beached whales. Modernity.

We lift battery powered cigarrettes against their cuban cigars perched like hindenberg hydrogen bombs, on hang nails.  We label the old ways sleepy, and ship them away with an old paradigm stamp. Feels good. Until we realize something is missing. It’s too quiet, spell-checked out and passported –century now come of age @ twenty-one — halfway creepy.

Well there will be some. But mostly what was and less is. Presence is a motherfucker in a technologically-formfitted times.  Hard to be sorry for those whose bases got stolen out from under them. Hard to be sorry for you and me. On our cell phones, about to get mugged. Best of luck to those who still guard them. The old ways, I mean. May you not go senile before  you have lost  all our disinterest. Favor moves fast, from Myspace to Facebook, then down into the Tumblr, non-plussed and discarded. Like some underage kid tossed out the bar. Poor boy,  slurs our century behind heineken and glass. Fucking carded.