I'm all over the place, but
this is an attack.
Stop saying
things
are like crack;
everything in the house,
everything around the planet
is like that.
And I've
had it.
Even the way
I just can't stand it
is a feeling
I seem to want
more and more and more of.
Politics, science, religion, opinion.
Oatmeal, honey, milk, cinnamon.
Satisfaction's like crack.
Truth. Beauty too, then;
after all, we just can't
stop looking at shit,
once we've
begun it—now, can we?
It's hard enough
here on this rock, already.
Every day, on my TV, I overdose on
The grooves of Saturn's rings
oozing mystic sex appeal
via Google Images.
They're just so chunky, glossy; it's
like some majestic vinyl record.
What hypnotic
epic song is etched in there? I wonder.
Which old 45rpm
of god's is that, whose insanely catchy lyrics
go—damn, we're so
caught up in the current
that we don't even notice
what it's been carrying—?
And when does the meaning of all these
such incidents—finally tally up to be
greater than
the single one which caused them?
And who on earth
makes those sorts
of decisions?
And then, who reinforces
them? by agreeing
so quick—
and repeatedly,
without thinking.
