I have become who I do not wish to be.
Upon waking this morning I could not find me.
Instead a stranger had taken up residence
beneath machine gun towers on a razor wire fence.
Somehow while I slept a prisoner I became,
captured naked and exposed, a number for my name.
The cumulative refuse of years like a disease
had suddenly overwhelmed my inner faculties.
The circles I ran in turned around again,
enclosing me in my own hoary skin.
In what putrid lab had this creature taken shape who now inhabited a body with no escape?
But I must confess that these bars were of my own making.
My subtle declination left me ripe for the taking.
And so in this prison I will forever be
until I learn to love the me that most frightens me.
in the West, the Man-Boy plays with his toy
joystick or drone
killing me softly alone
Xbox Wii PS4
smart bombs virtual war
in the East, the Boy-Man hears the siren’s song of martyrdom
heaven with a harem
pull the trigger
pull the pin
pay the price for another’s sin
in the East and the West we are losing this fight
whether with an army of vegetables induced by FPS comas
or those in the more permanent sleep
obliterated by shrapnel and suicide vests
while we obsess about the terrorists in faraway lands
we have already succumbed to an invasion by screen
in the East a Boy-Man’s body is blown to bits
in the West a Man-Boy’s mind counts up his hits
both are dead
one literal dust
the other lost in microcircuits
In the air around me buzzes the information that inundates my world.
Is that a word from you whom I love passing by like some invisible insect?
Or is the hum from something more sinister?
Am I being subtly changed, gradually disappearing into the wireless void?
Here, while I write, a million transparent vapor trails extend out in all directions.
We are indeed connected,
but is it enough to delay our fragmentation?
The soldier on a wireless set receives the command to kill.
The rebel punches a cellphone to explode an IED.
The drone flies on its unseen wire.
The satellite cannot find a missing plane.
The writer taps away.
The blue button is pressed.
A connection triggers another, then another and another.
Somewhere, on your screen perhaps, an alert appears.
Are we connected?
The heat brings out the snakes,
like money draws the rich,
like war brings out the guns,
like feces draws the flies.
Original poetry read by the author. Recorded stream of consciousness while in the car.
“When we raise one up another is brought low.”
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