“We are idiots, babe —
It’s a wonder we can even feed ourselves.”
We were at the mall.
We were in the shops and the streets.
We were glued to the screen.
We were blowing it up in life’s cradle.
We were talking on phones.
We were driving to work on reality TV.
We were wiring gone wrong and disconnected.
We were forgetting the meanings of words
When it happened.
We were distracted by angels imagined.
We were watching pornography.
We were worshipping a hunger
We would never impose upon ourselves.
We were drinking whiskey and wine.
We were nursing our wounds.
We were losing memories, forgetting histories.
We were anticipating repercussions.
We were lost in the labyrinthine passages of time,
Caught in meaningless moments made momentous
By circuits gone haywire,
When the strings and souls sang out.
We were wasting our time.
We were watching the clock.
We were counting the seconds.
We were engaged in the futile dance.
We were fucking and fighting
And feeding the beast.
We were screening for intentions, for weapons,
Or submitting to the eyes of the watchers.
We were moving but dead.
We were buying and selling.
We were caught in a game that we did not create.
We were building a city.
We were laying down concrete.
We were mourning cultures cast aside.
We were purchasing packaged flesh with crumpled bits of paper.
We were choking on fresh air
And drinking the poisoned potion of industry,
When their song played for the few.
We were lazy.
We were sleeping.
We were waiting in line.
We were sinking under the weight of the unending circus.
We were borrowing and spending.
We were spending and borrowing.
We were talking of nothing.
We were nothing and everything.
We were enraptured by the minutiae of lives unlived.
We were entranced and sickened
By the madness of marketing.
We were ho-humming the wild wood.
We were selling our children.
We were laughing at the old and the wizened.
We were creating cancers and conspiracies.
We were courting or casting out demons.
We were embodied – the original sin –
As a generation
Of minstrels, misfits and magicians,
Mired in our madness,
Imbued it with meaning
To the inescapable void.
Offered up for Open Link Night over at dVerse Poets.
I was musing on the passing of Howard Tate, and of so many other musicians, writers, thinkers and artists of that era. Where will we be when they’re all gone?