Wednesday, February 28, 2018

Dance of the Dilettantes

Moon clobbers everything;
       is nothing we think even real?
Our auras adjust like a hand
       at a party where
Everyone seems an extension,
       everything seems within reach
Of that old capricious heart that needs
       it just so, not too close,
Never far, we know how it is, exactly,
       we have lived it,
No matter how removed or concocted
       it seems, we can relate!

Oh the powers we have, to imagine
       the powers we have
And make them snug as a wet suit.
       They’re waiting for us now
To fall into their lap, with their pics
       of pizza and 9-year-old beagles,
Smiling like we belong there,
       and the quotes that they steal
Seem made for us in that moment,
       Who are on a first name basis
With presidents, date A-list royalty
       exclusively, know every ancient land
And every plot twist intimately, as if we
       could sense any trap.

There’s no distinction between what we hear
       and what they are saying,
Though the tapes, when they’re played back
       never validate our faith,
There is only a hiss, as if we were never alive.
       We’ll call it the still voice of yes.

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