Trickling so lightly, I hear whisper my alienation,
mocking me. My indignation sets firebombs on tranquil
streets where you can wring the air of debauchery
and sloth. Perhaps I am blinded, seeing red in green and gold;
the tabs and the papers are sold, controversy and redundancy
run like infomercials trying to sell everyone acceptance,
so they do not have the blood of belonging trickle down worn arms.
And my belligerent mouth becomes the barrel of sewn firearms,
the cross-stitching of misguided threads of communication
run diagonals, and my tongue is ensnared gorily in cross-fires.
Crimson devil heat is swelling the black hole pupil of my eye,
absorbing the tiniest fraction of a damp light, of sparkling Cristal.
Fantasy and nothingness run together in lucid dreams of
‘having a good time’.
Am I odd, normal man out, too awkward for the outsiders
that I enjoy rigidity, straight lines before my eyes, rather than the blur,
that Chiaroscuro of a ‘good time’, the Rococo fantasy of whimsy.
It is so flimsy that drinks pour through and drown.
It so unstable that it ignites and smoke races full circle.
It is a cornucopia of the Thanksgiving when we raised goblets
to the mass grave of our nation, over which we grew narcotics
to cloud the conscience that carved on our face a Trail of a Thousand Tears.
We celebrate in fear lest we return to reality, a mundaneness that sears.
I wake to embrace the panoramic view of existence,for the night prior
I set myself on fire with burning questions of darkness and forever.
I do so only to remedy the conflagration with teary prayers of salvation
To the heart that braved through his home burning down, that he shalt not waver.
Every breath is to savor, but how can I breathe when the air suffocates me
With preaching voices shoving escapism down my throat; a celebration of regret
in the guise of a ‘good time’.
And almost would I give credence to such a pretense
if have I not watched the people drown themselves
and the reservoir burst with overflowing anesthesia, taken in shots.
Or perhaps I saw claustrophobics frantic in clear clouds, an ounce of pot
On the floor, and then I see there is no cloud,but instead green Svengali.
Time is melting alongside the saddle of conspiracy; here God is Dali.
Happily would I turn away, leave the world to delusion, say ‘c’est la vie’,
if not my back were barbed relentlessly by low-brow snobbery,
and I watch my own illusion, in crowded cafeterias,condense
where there are droves of people. But I see absolutely no one
save shades of my own insecurity bend over the tables, wry grins,
aloof, almost mocking the table with that lonely man so chagrin.
Steely eyed and broken face melting off, as does my skin
as does my body, as does everything about me, including my sanity,
with no one but shades covered in smoke and pungent with spirit
to pick the stumbling pieces of desolation. To resign from the social game
is to glue oneself to the far corner of the room in the dark creases,
hoping clear eyes pierce through darkness to see my heart in pieces.
Do not tell me, members of the jury,
that you find me drab, incapable of ‘having a good time’.
For, with precise incisors, I want so dearly to dissect your fantasy world,
lay the corpse of it unto a surgeon’s table and show organs shriveled and curled;
take apart the words of what you say to me and pry meaning apart.
Crowbars and rage, I will methodically tear asunder language like it’s art:
a Pollock piece of language across the floor with battered letters.
And then we will cross examine every last one until nothing better
can be said, where we’ve exhausted words in assaulting words.
And they will have told such a backwards, confused false confession,
That the stenographer has gone into shock reading back such nonsense.
And then I will ask you again, why am I on trial for dissidence
Simply that I have no need for the grandeur of papier-mâché delusions?