They tell me that
I can have thousands
of naked women
at my beck and call
slipping unnoticed
through a tiny wire
in my wall
They tell me that
I can own the treasures
of China and Europe
by driving my car
a mere five miles
to their
weekend only
parking lot super-sale
They tell me that
for $59.95
plus shipping and handling
I can quickly learn to master
my emotions
my work
my wife
my life
And they tell me all of this
with a straight face
assuring me that
if I cannot
pay now
I can pay later
In January
Or something
I am applauded
even rewarded
for being a flat-broke
perverted pack rat
with a bad marriage
and no
self-control
It is an old place,
the Vanity Fair
but its merchants
now wield ivy-league MBA’s
And its hours of operation
are no longer confined
by space and time
But only by
the imagination
and affections
of
The
Thoroughly
Modern
Man
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Why is it that poetry can sometimes capture complex truths about human reality that would take an age to extrapolate any other way?
It makes me feel slightly more at ease with the world knowing that there are at least some people who are cognitive of our broken humanity
(I came across this site via chartreuse and am glad I made the trip)
The “brokeness of humanity” bit can be a tough sell in a culture that worships beauty, wealth and comfort. I figure I can throw a big stink bomb out there once in a while without too much yawning from the bleachers, there’s enough entertainment going on anyway…
I think Huxley named it “Soma”.
And no, I’m no preacher… just an amateur photographer of what I see.
[insert comment which is as meaningful as that poem here]
Given the stink already out there
a change is welcome
write on, my friend