My friends think I’m nuts.
I see squirrels everywhere I go.
They’re after me.
An insomniac.
Too afraid to sleep now so I don’t.
They’ll bury me.
Agoraphobic.
Outside the window, scratching, scratching—
They’re watching me.
Get claustrophobic.
Stuffy shell I’m in hell, let me out.
Think I’m cracking.
“Yet, in holding scientific research and discovery in respect, as we should, we must also be alert to the equal and opposite danger that public policy could itself become the captive of a scientific-technological elite. It is the task of statesmanship to mold, to balance, and to integrate these and other forces, new and old, within the principles of our democratic system—ever aiming toward the supreme goals of our free society. . . Down the long lane of the history yet to be written America knows that this world of ours, ever growing smaller, must avoid becoming a community of dreadful fear and hate, and be, instead, a proud confederation of mutual trust and respect.”
—President Eisenhower, in his Farewell Address of January 17, 1961
"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."
—Arthur C. Clarke’s Third Law
Atomized, surfers on the seas of Binary—
Realized through the mesmerizing veil of GUI,
The electric shock therapy of CRT
And LCD, beamed directly via relay
Brought to you courtesy . . . of the Barbie® Playhouse,
The meaty alphabets of chicken Google™ soup,
American E-Commerce Association™,
PeaPod™, Microsoft® Corporation, and your great
Friends at the CIA.*
In the long Ice Age, fire served the Neanderthal—
It kept the wild beasts at bay, bathed caves of crystal
While he slept his slow sleep, nestled in fur and dreamt
Of belly-stalks crept in hushed creeps, the rise and hurl
Of stabbing sticks and flint . . . the plunge, the sprint, the taste
And chin-dribbling delight of roasted mammoth steaks,
The tribe’s dirt-cracked grins, bloody beards, the ruby glint
Of twinkling eyes, so alive and so innocent
Of looming extinction.
Giving rise to this, our tragic society—
We live the mesmerized lives of plastic dummies,
We, the People of E, the apotheosis
Of Monkey, with our multitudinous voices
Choked in conformity . . . the opposable thumbs
At our throats, We, the silent majority, numb
And mute and dumb to the governing vigilance
And casual ethics wired to this “Surveillance
Industrial Complex.”
Matrix of the prosaic real, the hamster dead—
His life spent on the wheel, where his dancing feet tread
Tiny claws on steel, the squeak of Industrial
Revolutions, until exhausted, blind, and weak,
He crept from all purpose . . . curled on chips of cedar,
And drifted far from the thieves that robbed his blue
Skies, the wind on his fur, his mate and her brood,
And condensed muscular action into hollow
Ephemeral circuits.
*I could have said “Conditioning, Serendipity, Profit, Convenience, Necessity, and Fear.”
I can adopt this spirit magic, if need be—
Patient as a honey dollop dripped into tea,
Or a leaf once escaped the tree to brave holy
Flight, tumbling earthward with no wing and no hope, save
The wind’s fickle delight . . . to blow, and blow, and blow,
And breathe life into each as we spring from the bow,
And rise, in the governing arc of gravity,
Snap our strings, and flutter with all the symmetry
Of monarch butterflies.
I traverse these metaphysical dimensions—
Transform myself beyond all thought and intention,
Absorb a twelfth almond through a rent in my skin,
Take it all in, be it shaman, Brahman, portents,
All Seven Deadly Sins . . . Gita, or Gunga Din,
Made a necklace of ears, but they wouldn’t listen,
So, over the years a few have come up missing,
If I had to guess, I’ve a lurking suspicion,
They hated confession.
I know this elusive terrain, every inch—
Be it God’s ladle that stirs this peppery pinch,
Or the brush of Morpheus that dabs the sun black,
Paints these dreary caves of Aphasia in drab
Ignorance and constants . . . now, as slavering hosts,
The Necromancer’s dead, his zombies, ghouls, and ghosts
Unfurl their skull flags against a lemon-burnt sun,
I try to recall all the glad songs I have learnt,
But have never once sung.
A newcomer to the scene, M. Andre enjoyed his "official" publishing debut here on Unlikely 2.0. Recently, a number of his poems have appeared on Elite Skills, where they have received "rock star" reviews. As the inventor and host of an online venue for spoken poetry set to kick off in late-March, M. Andre has vowed to crush the PM Confessional paradigm or live
out the remainder of his days in a pain amplifier. For more information, please visit his website at www.geocities.com/mandrevancrown.