Poem for the People

People.

 

I used to deny I was special.

It made me feel so covert.

Like I was

emptying myself to play a role.

 

To be honest, I think I might have been a great actor.

Like Brando.

 

People though,

they are beautiful on their own or

from a distance.

 

The garden of tapping

Headless chickens on bus or corner or hall, though.

They make me feel I am slowly

Becoming more and more unique.

But I feel so lethargic in it… as though

 

I am a marionette made up of body parts,

all from varying ages in my part.

And my adult head is hung up by a hook,

Like something out of Hellraiser,

And I am directed to and from locations.

Hung up on this and that. A set of

tracks like a subway guiding me in predictability.

A stock character.

But at night I am here at this screen.

And I am fucking exceptional,

 

Even within a blogoshperic population of millions of ramblers.

Complainers and pitchers and blamers.

I am here.

 

As you age if your time

does not gain valuation over

Currencies of the world in which

you are jostled through,

then take a bow &

get off the stage.

I have something new to have destroy my chest and spawn

like a H.R. Giger alien.

 

And it knows your name is correlated to your economic position.

It knows you are a cheap or a high end action figure, or a sculpture.

 

It knows I am an original sin, an anomaly.

 A throw back Monday to Friday.

Some pastiche over the holidays for Measure.

 And you aren’t forgetting clever.

 

 People piss me off in large groups.

but become so interesting when left to themselves

just long enough to go a little cracked.

To leak something through

the sludge of brand and vice and mimicry.

 

You drown out the main soundtrack,

and make me dance a little less shifty.

But even you can’t handle my twitch.

 

I lifted myself through a roof once in a dream.

Inside the attic-like sky they occupied were

a dozen friends and lovers and I had yet to meet.

 

People are like the Dark Crystal I guess;

Skeksis are as necessary as Mystics.

Not that I ever considered myself Gelfling,

More like the Neverending Story’s  “Nothing” on my back,

That rides the mechanical bull of mu pride into

snowbanks of blow and

 dirty hobo with sketchy looks

and rusty metal pipes, being all like;

“You don’t know where I’ve been Lou! You don’t know where I’ve been!

 

No people here. Just the stroboscopic pentameter of

a million movie references,

balled up in a tight circumference of

freckled flesh set fire to with

a hundred binges.

 

Hoping to burn out the light

that burns your eyes.

Hoping to burn out the lights

before they fade.

Or,

at least break a few bulbs before

the restless natives take us apart again.

 

 

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