Friday Lunchtime Poetry

(I found this yesterday, while going through some old boxes. I wrote it about 18 months ago, on one of those extra-long pieces of paper towel, torn in half longways. I was at my job at the time, and it was the only paper available. Anyway. Sometimes the bug just hits me, and it did then. This is clearly an unfinished idea, and may end up being scrapped, but I liked the idea of it, and I liked that I charged into it full-force rather than being daunted by the idea of riffing this piece off of one of the most famous poems of the 20th century. Either way, here it is, for your general amusement and/or mockery.)

"Shrug"

(with apologies to ginsburg)

by d. m.

I have seen the best minds of my sad generation going numb,
wearily clutching video game pads and shrugging,

wondering if all the good causes have gone bad, and aren't worth fighting for,

shifting from foot to foot, restlessly waiting for revelation to awaken them from their soul-coma,

damning the man in their hearts, as they lie prostrate on his golden altar,

watching the world being parceled and purchased by athletic shoe and bottled beverage corporations,

telling themselves that this is the world that is, that must be,

telling themselves that this is america the beautiful, the all-inclusive, the network television premiere of democracy-in-dormancy that their founding father-mother-parents fought and died and lied and bought and sold for,

buying and selling themselves every day in cubed cages, wearing their pin-striped prison coats, with genteel nooses windsor-knotted,

fuelling their reckless hungers with chemical highs and lows and oblivions, sobering up furious to still be trapped in this world,

feeling hungover on their parents' euphoria, grasping aspirin to quell the kettle drum pounding of the galley-driver,

buying things to keep company with stuff gathering dust next to the junk that fills their stylish homes,

listening to the television box tell them yesterday's things are no good, not as good as today's, and believing it,

running, running, running, mindlessly, frantically, not "to" but "from", without ever really understanding what's pursuing them,

smiling, always smiling, hiding the fear of the lonely, the unnecessary, the used, the user, the remorseful wicked, the unrepentant righteous,

never ever Ever admitting their loss of control, no matter the situation, always putting forth personas powerfully displayed,

competing for prizes nonexistent but believed, cheating lying stealing betraying, to gain a half-step closer to the rainbow's end, knowing with faith as strong as religion that all they desire can and will and must be attained,

raving bitter, bleeding tears when they miss the mark by Just That Much,

cursing whirling crashing until they fall into the fog at the bottom of the path, until they relent, until they surrender and breathe out a final fiery gasp.