Stumbling towards a block of stumbling blocks,
In a flock of sheep that all they do is count sheep,
Pass time by wondering why all their time is passing,
Misappropriate this angst into a rant about how the world is collapsing.
URL’s and “too big to fails”,
Instagram models and privatized jails,
Endless capital and wishing wells,
The always thin line yet gaping hole,
Between heaven and hell.
Cascading concrete painted with confetti,
A beautiful ballet of urban decay,
Whitewashed over and over again,
It’s no longer a painting of purity,
But of invisible imperial stagnation.
Facebook and Alex Jones,
Conspiracies and misinformed gnomes,
Always together yet always alone,
August hurricanes and June west coast wildfires,
Utopia on a suicide wire.
A city falling into itself,
Mexico City falls into a global hell,
Under ground into a coal mine,
Where it will swallow poison,
And no longer be alive,
It used to be a city; a city on a hill,
Now it grass has been replaced by ash,
And it’s citizens with zombies on prescription pills,
We are left with one question to opine,
If there’s no one below the sun,
Does the sun really shine?
Nike factories and garnished salaries,
Cut up apples and computerized trees,
Manufactured knowledge and 140 character pleas,
Who knows what 2+2 equals?
Because the master hasn’t told you and me.
Foothills covered in fossilized footprints,
No one has walked this city in years,
Everyone who lives here is just a clone of someone who has been here before,
In the country history doesn’t move,
It just changes form.
And the addictions change too,
Your addictions chase you like a runaway slave,
Instead of cradle to grave,
We are cradled already in grave.
Opioids and needled voids,
Outspoken yet perpetually coy,
Always changing and always repeating,
A drought in the middle of a flood,
Reborn into old puddles of blood.
A climate in a bottle,
The mixture we put in,
Fossilized fuels and endless pollutants,
Release it into the sky,
Cuts the clouds like a sword,
And when the sky falls,
We will say there’s nothing we can do,
There’s nothing we can afford.
Military parades and endless malaise,
Permanent apathy and children in a cage,
Fake news and committee approved rage,
History in a permanent funk,
Or is it just a phase?
Blonde hair flapping in the wind,
Matches the color of the sun,
Leaves the moon and stars opening their eyes in awed unison,
But she’s crippled by anxiety,
The world around her doesn’t mean a thing;
It says she’s beautiful,
The mirror tells her a different kind of horror story.
What a wonderful, peculiar world we live in,
Different strands and different splotches come together to form,
One abstract portrait;
Hang it your room,
Call it the 50 stars in your flag,
It’s not beautiful or ugly,
It’s not happy or sad.
It just is….
And if you hold me we will get through it.