Vacillating

Why   does the world insist that ignorance
is   preferable to pain when
it   comes to societal expectations
so   that a truly independent action becomes
impossible   even though all I need
to   know is that all I need to do is
decide?

Stay-at-Home Vacation

Luscious vistas on demand.

Watch the sun spill onto clouds
and drip across golden breakers.

And in a flash, different waves
(still gold) whisper, rustle,
Baked by the midday sun.

Don’t like fields? No problem.
Click. The rainforest at your fingertips.
Rare wildlife captured, frozen
for your viewing pleasure.

Still not to your taste? The Serengeti,
then. Antarctica. Yellowstone. Angel Falls.
Zoom in. Isn’t it
sharper? There’s no way
eyes alone could catch

all those details. Stay in air-
conditioned comfort. It’s better than hiking four
hours in mud, swarmed by bugs
for a momentary glimpse:
hard-earned, hardly seen.
No need to

get wet. It’s better than a real
vacation. Clean
er. Faster. Eas
ier. What’s
not t
o lov
e?

reevaluation

what differentiates me from everyone else plenty of people have ingenuity what’s happening to them they’re all disappearing they’re all engulfed by the dream monster and it seems that they wither and stagger still resisting still believing still reaching still forgetting to remember to give up it’s what we aim for there’s no higher end than to consume and be consumed we’re all just copycats mediocrity is hectic help me?

Sterile

Facsimile students assembled and riveted.
Individually shrink-wrapped.

Q.C. Passed.

They're all the same.

The music starts, a screech of noise
Inviting all not girls and boys,
But brazen youths in lieu of childs
All feigning age and painting smiles.

A shallow beat the music dons
To smother art in simple “fun.”
The beat—a beat—they’re all the same.
So regular it throbs with din.

Uncreative, noncreative, decreative, acreative.
An urge to follow, an urge to leave.
To submit, to join? Divided
Thoughts are better not dwelt.

Feet pound tiles imperfect unison
Synchronized ripples chaotic arrayed
Ulterior schemas spontaneous emerge.

Rigidity, fluidity, possibility, impunity,
But always the mantra—unrelenting, eternal:
“Is this humanity or merely insanity?”

Evening by the Shore

We waited outside amidst the softly stealing sunlight
Watching reluctant golds wink away from green blades,
Verdant swells that matched the ocean’s might.
The waves still shone with shallow shades.

The flushed sky laughed at earth’s last gleam.
Tired, we pressed our knuckles to our eyes
And marveled at the beads of steam
Skittering across our sight—just lies.

Until the old sun merely blinked and vanished,
And pulled its laughing light with it.
Our clocks wound down and languished.
Our beds cozy, nestled, and moonlit.

It really doesn’t take a mental leap
To know that evening’s when we fall asleep.

Still awake, he dreamt

The little boy—eight, at the time
—tossed and turned in bed.
Still awake, he dreamed of the future
And success and glory and acceptance
And all those other dreams
That eight-year-old minds conjure.

Listening through the flaking walls
Of his dusty, grimy apartment,
He heard cars passing
(Home, unfortunately,
Was too close to the thoroughfare).
Still awake, he dreamt.
He imagined himself in those rushing cars,
Zooming by with their rumbles and coughs,
Headlights winking with unwavering purpose.
Where were they going?
—To see the world? —To bear its weight?
—To uphold the channels which gave it life?

He tossed over again
And avoided glancing at the clock
Which mercilessly marked the time
And secretly revealed his guilt.
It was beyond his bedtime.
The mattress squeaked in rusty pain.
The blankets bunched together in a broiling tangle,
So he kicked them aside into a frustrated heap.

Between the din from the highway
And the murmurs which floated
From the chink of light under the door,
He swore an oath—to himself.
Whatever it took, however long he tirelessly worked,
He would get one of those zooming cars
And drive around with important matters.

Alas, it was late—school tomorrow.
And school the day after.
And the day after.

The bed was still hot.
He turned over again.