TIP SHEET/ FALSE ABUNDANCE
i wanted my heart to be like a snowflake, to melt daily and regenerate, freeze one over, come up roses again and be not like the heart of the day before, no two alike.
night is when the brain must grow because opportunities are suppressed in the day, a fact we consent too readily to. night is when the brain must grow and that is why i have such a crappy garden, because even my closed-eye thoughts seek to exculpate your mediocrity. i avoid others because i have never lived for myself. and now i have too little time left for anyone or anything: i must pantomime someone else’s version of responsibility, hold off my catharsis, and pretend a sacrifice is only a compromise, render my anger a diminutive, make a fury a frustration.
i’m sorry i was a symbol of the underside, the things determined to have gone wrong. i wanted to get my head together, and i wanted my mind to be like a flipbook. i sought out shamans and charlatans, and alike they told me my desires were obsolete and my fantasies mutually exclusive. my contradictions could not be contained. for once, on my behalf, i wanted someone to shoot first and ask questions later. i got someone to shoot first and ask questions later, but not on my behalf.
search engine optimization: we are boiling down the complexity of our souls for product placement. knowledge is now a matter of prostitution, a nudging: purchased enlightenment. nothing used to be this way, nothing ought to be this way, yet this is the way things are. pain has become a virtue. the villains get endorsements from dead men. with all this technology, all we’ve done is systematized slavery: no one gets out of injustice’s grasp, assholery is particularly efficient now, gossip, stigma, paparazzi, blacklist blazing, the rites of passage never satisfied, you are never established, subject to unrest, uproot (please be blind to how one influences another, the spokesmodels slur). the landlords, the bankers, and the armsmakers own the world, and yet we are so afraid to cross them. everyone else got the tip sheet, everyone else got the memo, on how to live, on how not to get riled on this, on how to remove themselves from the fury and seek out suggestive entertainment (here’s convenience: a prefabricated ecstasy and an assembled accessory packaged to go with it, all coordinated for easy consumption!) even my abandonment of myself is streamlined.
the capo would be proud if he wasn’t too busy masturbating for dollars, the newest televised sport—polish the member with the greatest panache and faux-metal glitter supplied in wax-on sponsored plenty, and you will win a drought-paradise prize.