Stick a lolipop
into the mouth of moments
your life is a child
and somewhere in there
you give a flying ****
about the moon
and no it's not cheese.
That mouth knows what dirt tastes like
but that wont stop me from pouring caramel
and cigarettes over it.
I need a fix
of candied dirt
and addiction.
I'm not afraid of the eclipse
because I'm already hooked on the dark.
So lock the door
&
draw the curtains
&
be content.

The tide wont be knocking
no matter how much you
want it to fill the room
or how big is your sweet tooth
because
hunger
is BIGGER
and eventually
anything will do.
So thank the moon we were wearing seat belts.
Otherwise we might be vegetables
eating only exhaust
like Hiroshima
force fed the sun
because
you only make war on an empty stomach
or with an insatiable hunger.

Be content

for the civilians and their children
who only know the taste of war.
Idiot flavored idiots with a hint of
dead mothers
that will bore a cavity so big
it'll put holes in the head
of kindergardens everywhere.
Who write their valentines on bombs.
Who's love murders buildings,
topples families,
plowing through bodies on city streets all to reach
nobody.

Be content

for the people
who aren't
you because when parents ******* in a box
you call a country means
you don't care
you put genocide on the menu
and there are some things that just wont do.
As I grow weary of rivaling chefs pointing fingers
in circles forever
becoming a porthole to the ****** business
becoming the unsuspecting manhole for
the human animal's existence

in crossing.

Mothers may find safe shelter in the sewers
but it reeks of prepackaged liberty
express delivery
to
every where.

Be content.

Because to start a revolution means living it
and what better way,
to ******* a reckless pace
that finishes first in hunger,
starting fist fights with other people's lives
and forgets even sooner,
than
to
be
content.

Marcuse! Marcuse! Where the **** are you?
He moved to California and all he could do was argue.
Instead of gratitude through platitudes and assimilation,
He sought to change the west with his social trepidation.
A change is coming, from West to East
As society embraces that Germans beast.
"You're a ****** if I say so, an idiot racist with a scapegoat."
The only fun he ever had was raging in his raincoat.
The man was ungrateful and stole our academia.
Now all schools teach is his prepackaged mass anemia.
Purging true thought, cursing the whole lot while he's at it.
Burning loose crops, as each kids churning an addict.
Marcuse! Marcuse! where the **** are you?
Marcuse! Marcuse! How the **** could you?

There isn't much to be said
About the day time-
Hour after hour, we beat on
Against the ticking clock
Of complacency,
Until before we know it-
We're ****** into the realm of
The halfway living.
Awake past midnight,
Processing the happenings
Of 9-5,
As if draging them out into
Language
Will increase their potency.

There's nothing more moving
Than yesterday,
After a night of fermenting in
Our desperate minds.
Often too late to be felt
Before 10pm.

Reality is too much with us.
Pushing up against
Our trembling palms,
As we reach out
To ******
The manufactured idea of
Happiness. Prepackaged
And with an expiration date
Beyond the next year.

We try to find our fate in tarot cards,
Palm readings, grocery market bargains, expensive haircuts where they only take an inch off but you still cry, second rate ballets and strip clubs, the words of others, and Sunday services past 12 where the hangover isn't as dreadful.
Experience junkies,
****** fiends,
Attention addicts,
Compassion parasites,
We **** the marrow from the earth
And prescribe her with Ritalin
And 3 months of sick leave-
The placebo effect has never seemed
So enticing.

Is this what it's like to talk to God?
Newspapers from last week
Find their way into the warm,
Sticky floors of the subway:
They have no purpose here
In this cool, indifferent future.
Bold headlines prophesying drought,
And lamenting those already dead,
Alongside ads for half off
A large pizza, and 25% off your biggest
Problems. Classified ads
And the sports section
Reek of ***, failure
And vulnerability-
No one cares, now.
The past is only real within the proceeding hour,
And middle school history class lessons,
Too optimistic to hold
Any reality beyond repetition.

Lifeless, we seep through time until
The pages are soaked and soggy with
Our failed ambition and twice baked
Love stories that grossed a billion dollars
For the movie theaters, gas stations and diamond companies-
Condensed into romance novels
And nonfat ice cream:
A testament to a nation
Afraid to feel anything that isn't synthesized
And discussed in tabloid magazines.

Sideline poets and actors,
We rap our knuckles raw against the railing,
Nervously counting down the seconds
Until we will be called to dutifully recite
All we know.
Waiting, we count our blessings.
The cumulation of good deads and sacrifice
That have paid the dues for a one way ticket
To the promised land.
Little children, again,
We twist the frays of our sweaters
And buckle our knees with anticipation
Of judgement day
And Memorial Day weekend.

Use your fingerprints
decorate walls,
stain old world maps.
Whorls spiral into
comic book wallpaper,
vertical designs and heart lines.
Glass pillars fogged with secrets,
bits of chipped concrete,
2:34am security footage.

42 minutes of prepackaged snowstorms.
Lying corners of the mouth
whisper plans B through Z.
Rusty sleep theories,
half-truths
in runaway boats.

A static pulse
casually remembers menthol cigarettes,
apple cores and
eighties music.
Espresso roast washing
blue and white porcelain from 1683,
knotted pale navy dots.
Wisps of kites anchored in the sand,
anthropology in lighthouses
stretching for the aurora borealis.

Should I be prepackaged in rolls of bubble wrap
Placed nicely in a box labeled FRAGILE
wrapped in layers of caution tape?
Should I come with an instruction manuals and tagged "HANDLE WITH CAUTION"
To others I'm easily broken
But to me I'm incredibly durable
Maybe the only sign I should have is
WORK IN PROGRESS

I tried to make pasta salad for dinner
but my "healthy" pasta was spoiled.
The only little critters known to man that are able to microscopically sneak in to prepackaged wheat have won again.
So I settled.

I figured I'd make up for my starchy negativity by using "veganaise",
but,
of course,
it tumbled out of the fridge that day in my absence
And shattered.
....So I settled.

Cleaning the kitchen behind my
half-satisfying
yet
I- ate-too-much-of it anyway
meal shattered my glass across the tile,
Persistent tiny shards
just jutting from the grout
like my bruised confidence after trying to clean my soul
of the filth that holds me hostage.

As of today I've gone without car insurance for a month
I've been absent from school
because my attendance is hard-wired to my lack of a
functioning.....wallet.

I got caught in the rain this evening
wondering how long I've got before defeat
catches me by more than a single strand hair,
drowning me in a thunderstorm of
uncontrollable emotion,
pattering and piercing  my consciousness so hard
that when I finally got indoors,
I approached my filth with open arms of surrender--
soaked,
sitting,
And settled.

if i had the poetry to tell you how soft i am in hot bubbles
i could drive you mad
the combination of my prepackaged scents would make you curse
like they used to
for that one boy
whom i have willfully discarded

if you did not have the imagination
i would show you
and christen your forehead
with fig and blood orange

if you cannot reach my tousled wet head,
if you cannot not kiss my freckled shoulders,
if you cannot not put your arms around
my soft, bathwater waist
i should not tell you
that you could

no one
likes a tease

Flutter flatter flit flip flap
Clap chat chapped lips
Leaking secrets
Speaking softly
As the world whirls by
And faded faces blur together
On panes of plate-glass windows
Strolling silent streets and
Dreaming of anywhere but here

Pitter patter pretend
We’re on the
Tip top of everything
Taping together
Our own reality
Far removed from truths that
Could tear it tear us apart

Flash frame freeze forget
Flit flap free-bird fly away

Fast fly far from
Tick-tock towers
Click-clack-clocked lives
Empires encircling
Pretty-please prepackaged people
Dipper dapper dressed-up doves
With withered windless wings
Locked-up longing lost
And just
Looking for anywhere but here

And their

Haunted hollow heartbeats
Wind between our whispered words
Weaving these tangled tapestries
Tying together all the
Maybes memories melodies
That we carry
All the struggles and scars and
Shatter-glass shiny bits of
Hope-light heart-love

That we call a human soul

Fading springs,
And
Crying wolves.

I just can’t take this anymore.
In.
A killing headache.
I promise I’ll ruin those shoes.
Every last one.

Prepackaged talent
To amaze your senses.
Not so conscious.

It’s only a lie,
But it’s true.

This life;
A processed gem.
Rejoice in your misery;
Is what I’m told.

Love for me is like cigarettes
I need you, I really do
Sadly, I call off all bets
When I'm  done and through

Inhale you warm and deep
Feed my addiction
Tell you, You're mine to keep
That you and I aren't fiction

Halfway through is where I doubt
How much is left of you
Soon follows screams and shouts
Our love turns blue

I see the filter approaching
And know out time is short
the arguments are worsening
with every cynical retort

The end has bitterly come
The taste I longed for
Is now dull and dumb
I'm a *******, you're a *****

Extinguish you
Like I have many others
Under my conflicted shoe
Due to issues with our mothers

Watch the ember die and wither
Unfortunately it'll be 20 minutes
Before I tell another to come hither
Oblivious to my own limits

Prepackaged and mass produced
Complimenting my every inebriation
For now at least, I deduce
Truly you are deaths creation

Set you ablaze knowing
That our intoxicating romance
Has not a single chance
Of ever positively growing

Love for me is like cigarettes
I need you, I really do
Sadly, I'll call off all bets
When I'm content and through

I’m counting the freckles on my skin.
I’m tracing the coffee-splotch birthmark on my stomach.
I’m biting my nails and cracking my knuckles and
thinking about the Old House.

I think it’s sort of funny how in an entire life,
with all its seconds and all its moments, and
all its memories, only some things really stick.

There used to be a time where I prided myself
on my apparently “flawless” memory; I forget
things all the time.  Like
        my mother’s voice
        my father’s face
        my grandmother’s eye color.

I fear that I’ve forgotten the most
important parts of my childhood.

I remember daddy’s race cars,
mommy’s wine, the time my sister
slammed the van door on my head, and the
time I kicked the bathroom entrance.

Last week I opened the photo albums from
under my mother’s bed and I’ve
already forgotten all the things that I
finally figured out that I forgot.  
Sitting on the floor, surrounded by one-hour
Walgreens prints, I started to pick open a
wound that I did not even know was there.

My dog’s ashes are still hidden, a copy
of my mother’s Will is still missing, and last
year my step father found prepackaged
“emergency escape bags” in our basement
along with $250 cash inside the
cogs of our whirlpool.

I’ve heard stories of how my mother
kept documented journals of my father, but I’ve
never had the guts to ask for them.

I’m beginning to wonder what kind of people
my parents really were.  I’m beginning to wonder
just how much of my childhood
I’ve forgotten
                           and how much of it
         I’ve lost.

Hypocrisy tastes like a burning flag, metallic and too sweet, like prepackaged lemonade and the sweat on your upper lip. Ghost girls with skin the color of special facilities linger in map-less forests, fleeing from camps where they dip chin-dimpled children in ice bucket lies. It’s only a game, gentlemen. Don’t think too loud or they’ll paint ribbons around your neck faster than you can whisper “this is wrong,” faster than “this is inhumane,” and even faster than “where is God?” Faster than the pale, fleshy worms that creep into the orbs of innocence embedded in girls’ abdomens and turns them crimson, and what escapes is only soggy snow and whimpers of protest. But no, you can’t blame those vermes. It’s human nature. This is all human nature, and we still find ourselves better than the trees, faster than sound, higher than the clouds.

I legit never knew the beauty black roses possess.
I stared at one day after day.
She looked like she didn't want to be bothered.
Still she'd look and stare.
She grew differently than the red ones.
Prepackaged, given to others in mass quantity.
She'd sit alone and read amongst herself.
With arched eyebrows and shapely dress.
Most were afraid of her thorns. Despite all the beauty she possessed inside.
They only saw her outside.
Reason her thorns were so sharp.
The misconception that she was to be feared.
When in reality they protected her.
They made her to think that she was ugly.
The red roses that surrounded.
They'd bunch around her in fear of their own self conscious.
Attempting to stop her smile.
The more they tried, the more she stood out.
Grounded in her faith she grew out of her insecurity.
Being the regal beauty that she was.
Realizing the heroine she searched was inside her the whole time.
Her petals testimony to her root.
When I spoke she cheerfully replied with a smile.
I walked by day after day

i'd like to say that i've always been into clean living
but there's nothing really clean
about *** on your brother's living room floor
or
making you ache in movie theaters
with just a glance
or
handjobs and ruining your pants
i
somehow have this strange power over men
wanna look into my eyes
when i **** them
like i was prepackaged
batteries included
a little machine
with thick thighs and big lips
and
the prettiest eyes you've ever seen
below your belt
you
hang on my words like they're something
you've never felt
i

have a pretty smile
taste like something you've wanted
but never had
with crinkles in my cheeks and the dimples on my back
i
could make a grown man crack
and i
do -
the middle aged men at my job
love me
wait outside after closing tryna touch me
and i get scared
walking home
fingers shake
in the cold
one mile till i can let go
of the breath
that i hold
and i

try my hand at clean living.
eat salads,
stay home on the weekends
cut off boys
that make me
feel
anything
joe at work
tells me to wear less makeup
maybe then
men won't follow me home
maybe then
mike will leave me alone
stop calling the store phone
looking for the prettiest smile
he says he's ever seen
i stand behind the counter
ready to dial
911
on my screen

clean living doesn't feel very clean
when everyone you touch
has dirt on them
i mean
i don't want to make a scene
at work
i just want to make money
go home
not get hurt
keep my head down
but red is too easy to spot
much easier than i thought

Hell is fluorescent lights and the clicking of mice;
a place where the mind can’t breathe;
a place where the soul forgets her wings;
a place where the only flickers of wonder
are found in well-constructed Excel formulas.
This was never my kind of magic.
I often question why the little rectangles
on a spreadsheet are called “cells” instead of “boxes.”
Then it dawned on me: this is because
working these things as a daily job function
is the closest you can get to feeling prisoner
without committing a felony.
This was never my kind of magic.
Hell remains sedentary, listening to the same
fifteen rotating songs on a soft rock radio station
chosen by someone who makes triple your wages.
It’s prepackaged breakfast out of a vending machine,
eaten in a 4x4 cubicle that’s
fixed in a room without a single window.
This was never my kind of magic.
Hell is a cheap Chinese finger trap:
failing to find release
by pulling in wrong directions.
It’s a tight trickery that insists you stay
because you have nowhere else to go;
but my kind of magic is the inward force
that has met a friendly freedom.
It’s bathed in inviting shades of turquoise,
and fell in love with the solace of the desert.
It’s memorized the curves of mountain peaks
and collected freckles from every angle of the sun.
It loves the rush of blood to the head,
when racing the sunrise
on the edge of some atmosphere.
Something that hell could never
put its thumb on; this is
my kind of magic.

i want to stop,
i dont know if i can,
take these hands that fetter me,
remove the chains around this neck,
unlock my lips,
you can be creative,
figure out the steps,

make war on my senses,
id rather leave (her)e senseless,
capture this,
moment,
stolen,
and bought,
this organic prepackaged heart,
pressed and used to be pressed and you used again.
but its different for you,
ive made it for you unshackle the weary,
bones help me shake them down,
lets dance over supposition of our innocence now,
innocence used as a guise to cover and uncover who we really are,
well... the we ... we are together,
chop it up spit it all out give them something to shout about,
i will the secrets you keep hold to hope
will make a promise,
never to consider the rope
of injustice,
a picket fence and 2.5 kids
make the promise for living

Sometimes it is all talk show host and other times it is floating, if there is a distinction would you notice? Numb is good for a time and then it is nothing. Laying down to waste the days in idle chatter and used up coffee cups. Sometimes there is an angry door, or a sad chair painting in this upside down illusion. What is the core? What is there twixt the dusk and dawn that call unto the beast. We long for the base needs, mate, sleep, hunt not this convenience store loving hoard, give me TV and give me death. Plastic ,prepackaged, sterilized shipped to my door in pristine cardboard. Why am I the way I am?

My Mother's face beams
pixilated
and irreverent thoughts flood
my brain
gazing down
my legs         too long
my ******* too large
his smile is a symphony
before fire and rage
and I, I am
sanguine, just behind
the deceit and pain of
her protrusive smile

My shoulders are too wide, bear
too much     These eyes know
far more than hers
from a distance -
could be alive
and so could she
not as now - no, I cannot
fathom that
but as was - captured
flickering
like my memory of her
before it all went wrong

I search     reluctant
for what small glimpses the
machine might offer
Her name here, not mine
anymore but another’s settles
lead through my veins
screaming       NO
wrong
so gone that this picture
is foreign could be
prepackaged in frames for
convenient selling

I know his
grin as my own
and that sweater was
my favorite
but is foreign too as my
thighs and toes and trailing smoke
are to her
But beaming, I yearn
for what I cannot have
forsaken
with one hand   while I clawed
out my heart with the other

still bleeding for you
my dear Mother

I lost my only pen and consequently lost my head
Sell my psyche .99 only once a month take me away burn everything leave me in the little box you made I'm here I'm here tell me what are my fears slowly dying of irony in a living room with prepackaged food if living is four walls well haha I'm living it up
The crescendo sounds like hey you wanna beer don't think about your fears fortisimo bounce legs grit teeth grip chair turn on the tv live bicariously try to get the experience through fire wire liars
My eyes are melting the chicken is burning  smoke alarm living spontaus combust (ie watch **** smoke **** ride the bus)
I am the walking dead the champion of keeping it down when all I want is to scream and run around

It feels like we live in separate realities.
In your world the pop songs sparkle.
Shiny things bring a better quality
and the invisible hand of greed
is always the best option.

In my world there is anger and tears;
thirty-six years of disappointment
peppered with worldwide violence.
There is hunger and desperation
where it could be avoided.
There is aggression where compassion
would be better served.

In your world SUVs and mansions
seem to be the golden standard,
and everyone dreams of
acquiring enough new stuff
to beat the other consumers.

In my world there is war
There are people just beyond
my fingers reach,
children outside my door
still suffering.
While upper middle class mothers
are setting up scheduled playdates,
daughters are out getting date *****.

People making choices
that no one should have to make
like water, or electricity
like food or heating
like gas to get to work
or a non-holey t-shirt
like killing your own mother
or someone will **** you
and your little brother
like selling drugs to make ends meet
or working a job that does not
provide any real stability.

In your world
bland statements stir the masses,
simpletons lead
the desperate, separate
but same factions
and your identity
is a prepackaged
commodity.

In my world
I rage against stupidity
but this anger is
slowly killing me.
Chest tightening,
it is frightening
how the wealth is passed on
how success is passed around
how art is watered down
to the most basic
and remedial bits of
repetitive ****.

In your world;
You do not see what I see
but I still see you
and right now
you are breaking my heart.

Your consciousness is restricted by your self-imposed ignorance. You are so much more then your consumerism impulses, your romantic fantasies/heartaches, your political ideologies, and your religious dogmas. You are a universe of potential, something that can be developed in the stillness of introverted introspection, something that is unique and beautiful, something that longs to be shared with the world. You are your own mechanism for self-directed emotional, intellectual, nutritional, and  neurochemical evolution. You just have to look beyond the predefined prepackaged reality and realize just because it is done this way does not mean it has to be done that.

there's a situation
I need words
straight from the heart
not necessarily mine
luckily CVS has
some prepackaged words
for any occasion.

the signs
are mine
to read
encrypted
with rhymes
and reason
prepackaged
expected
man is man is man

I am almost twenty-three & her gentle prophecy has yet to come true

My curiosity gets the best of me and I browse through my old musings

I was so...seventeen.

My warped understanding of love with a twenty six year-old man

(predator)

whose sheets I still find myself lost in from time to time.

Fights with my father were mountains

& I was climbing to the apex of his approval,

always just short before backsliding.

Okay, so I guess things haven’t changed that much.

Maybe the five year mark of graduating high school

makes me long to have accomplished something that feels worth this living

I spent so much time hating myself for.

I worry my poems will sound so...22 in five years

marked by smoking too much **** & trying to outdo myself

with tenderness.

Even if I hate my now poems someday,

they serve as prepackaged memories

disguised as metaphors.

As parts of my trying to fall into rain,

unchanged & stop apologizing.

I feel my body’s accomplishments already.

Making it out alive counts.

Your consciousness is restricted by your self-imposed ignorance. You are so much more then your consumerism impulses, your romantic fantasies/heartaches, your political ideologies, and your religious dogmas. You are a universe of potential, something that can be developed in the stillness of introverted introspection, something that is unique and beautiful, something that longs to be shared with the world. You are your own mechanism for self-directed emotional, intellectual, nutritional, and  neurochemical evolution. You just have to look beyond the predefined prepackaged reality and realize just because it is done this way does not mean it has to be done that.

To those of you who wish me into a neat box. To your one way street of brain, of course I should belong in one of these spaces.
To not, is confusing, is weakness or stupidity. How very pleasant your world must be. Where one plus one is two everytime, where c always follows a and b. 
How comfortable, how safe is must feel that your gravity has never shifted, your self has never been tested, doubted and questioned. How envious I am of your prepackaged world. 
How shiny and delicate it is - your crystal clarity being so awesome. 
I was once a guest in your world, and I can tell you your concrete paths are not helpful to those who dare to enter the forest, to those who are underwater, to those who dream in the clouds. 
Concrete is predictable, boring and ugly.

People are dying,
screaming and crying,
searching for justice
while others are lying.
People are striving
struggling, and trying
to make others see
the value of their being.

But if we can’t learn to
live with love,
then we will all
die apart in pain.

We can’t seem to agree
on the distance between
what we think
and what is reality;

Cause this isn’t united
these states come
prepackaged and divided,
as corporate playthings
that thrive on people hating.

So, if we can’t learn to
live with love,
then we will all
die apart in pain.

It doesn’t matter the color.
I see sisters and brothers
on every street corner.

That gun that you pull
doesn’t make you cool.
That red liquid isn’t a pool
we can swim in when,
we are already choking
and drowning.

That was somebody’s son.
He was somebody’s father.
She was somebody’s daughter.
Now they are grief embodied.
There will be tears in the wind
from another slaughter.
So, when they bleed on the ground
with sick sobbing sounds,
that’s not just another stranger,
that’s a family member in danger.

If we can’t learn to
live with love,
then we will all
die apart in pain.

I break my fist
as I crash against this
brick wall of
prepackaged *******.

I break my neck
as I try to twist
and barely miss
taking a bruising hit,
but still manage
to hurt myself
dodging it.

In the end
as I move to bend
letting light in,
and distorting it
taking the fragile part,
and reporting it
I break my heart,
but never lose it.

I wanted to be human
to see with the eyes
of hopeful travelers
like the rogue road writers
who navigated the stars
of the love and dreams
that came before me.

I wanted to
to engage my humanity,
to warp past
the speeds and perceptions
we knew, then till now, and beyond.

I wanted to learn and advance
to grow and be smarter
exploring new thoughts
and new philosophies
absorbing new
scientific curiosities
and be wiser for the knowing
then make us all better
for the showing
growing all minds
like strange 3d expanding models.

I wanted much from myself
and expected parallel dreams
from my fellow human beings.
But this is where the poem ends
where hope melts and sorrow begins
boiling me in my discontent.
I used to believe we could do great things
now I find this flesh limiting
as people behave like prepackaged machines
who hate and report
who repeat and distort
their prejudices as facts.

Even though, I can create grand worlds
of prose and poetry in my mind
I cannot find the power or time
to truly imagine a believable better world
for all humanity.

I have traveled through life and I have seen many things. I have been to many places and met many people. Though I have never done one great thing, I have given of myself. I have tried to leave kindness everywhere I have gone. Some might think this trivial, but I think it has it's worth. Forest don't come prepackaged neither does a world change overnight. Sometimes you aren't called on to be a great hero, just to be kind to someone in need. Giving a glass of water or simply sitting and listening to a persons troubles is sometimes all that is needed. When a troubled soul is at peace, then hope can begin to grow. With each person helped as I walked down the road. I did nothing extraordinary, I just filled a need. It was really nothing at all, I only planted seeds.

In the days when we first chipped stone
and carved from earth long lines of chalk,
we set in place rock circles honed
to hear the nature spirits talk.

The hurried sun wheeled all around
these massive stones we made to stand,
casting shadows on this fertile ground
that tell us when to sow this land.

Then came the age of bronze first wrought.
We built our temples where oracles spoke
foretelling how our world was caught
in snares and schemes of gods provoked.

But tin and copper fell to iron;
A new temple grew upon Zion’s hill,
as gods to just one god would turn —
iron presaged dark satanic mills.

Another grain in the hourglass fell:
the sharpened skill of work in steel.
Our churches rose with tales to tell
which called us to in sackcloth kneel.

We wedded iron with coke and steam
to summon power, rip from earth
all we ever craved: a false dream
of boundless bounty, endless worth.

From one old god to a new model,
religious in the cult of me,
prepackaged for our blind apostles,
Mammon’s black seed sowed eagerly.

This seed turned slick with silicon
from which grew fiberoptic veins
injected with an ****** balm:
A new cult idol it became.

Today the circle’s stones are laid
in server nets that span the globe,
with oracle influencers well paid
to infantilize our frontal lobe.

Bright magic mirrors in our hands
with retina screen technology:
Tech prophets lead to this promised land
of unkept promises to fill false needs.

The circle’s silicon steles stand:
new dark satanic mills for today.
A mock Jerusalem holy land,
bare desert where chalk lines once lay.

In this waste I find an old stone axe
of flint and oak and red deer’s thread.
Its polished head still bears the cracks
from when we first on this path were led.

It's easier to deal with an enemy
when he's dead,
because you can change what he said,
reworking it retroactively
to make it so you both agree
like Richard Daley did with Martin Luther King
Jr.

But if you don’t want to wait for death then
you can co-op or cop people's thoughts
so you can sell them some slick ****,
that prepackaged can of emotional spam
that lets self-serving men rewrite history
to suit their capitalistic autocratic
caste system that casts victims
of the almost mindless majority.