When We Are Suicided
“For the haughty men
Have risen up against me,
The ruthless seek my life.”
– Psalm 54:3
Hear ye, Hear ye, Mall America now in session.
The USA one big mall ruled through corporate
governance, inverted democracy that hates anything
ironic, with depth, requiring more than 2 seconds
focus away; reshaping culture into cartoons,
of music, film and the arts through technology
abused, replacing individuals coming together
as individuals with groups
driven by mass psychology, all the better to consume.
To isolate, and be consumed. We cannibalize ourselves,
what we fear most. Everything you detest and protest
directed by media: people have abandoned themselves, lost
the way of looking.
You are cerebral billboards for aphasic degeneration,
grieving for an un-comprehended loss: now that you are
everyone, you might guess
exactly where the Berlin Wall landed finally.
All the silences have been polluted: the true climate change,
the flood of everyone.
The landscape you look outward towards dissipates as you
drown, not wave like Stevie says.
You stare at others as your doom when at that moment,
in this time afterwards, there is no one else in the room.
You think of dying as one long illness. You might
get better, in a season of relief, still live knowing
all is temporary amid the grinning grief of
nitwits congratulating themselves they have cash,
while you’re concerned with poverty, your
imagination failed by those occupied with riches.
You dress in reason and belief, contort your
movements with the progress of ideas: a pleasing
puppetry designed to achieve anything except
the difference you proclaim. Oh, but let’s all be
pleasant finally exclaim those bankrupts of feelings.
You can neither speak nor think without reference
to myths already decimated, the tapestries of
the eternal fixed in earth; moon morons stunned
skyward: anywhere but here, you cry. There must
be something else besides this pit of dust, you sigh
Where there is no finality, but limitation
to what you know or won’t.
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