Cavort
By Connie Dover
I have learned
this year
so far
that:
orange is the new pink
amazing is the new awesome
and bread is the new antichrist
a smile is actually a vestigial combat position;
and fellow politicos rarely disagree
They simply view enigmas from different perspectives
I don't meditate
I just lie in bed in the morning
and think about stuff
like:
unlimited nationwide long distance calling
niche film making for Mormons
and how unpalatable it would be to love without
attachment
a vulture huddled over a corpse buzzing in the dirt
weekend winner giveaways at my local pontiac dealer
a child sleeping in the lap of a cadaver
one hundred days one million bodies
honey change the channel
We prefer our truth cut
with head-spanking images of pillow-lipped nymphs
who undulate through glossy SUVs and vault from high-res
screens
into the viagra-spiked lap of a nation
that sits incubating in a sitcom induced haze
blink
and thus the world failed Rwanda
Who cares if I have mental cleavage
in a kingdom whose terrified rulers deploy smiles like
weapons
as they play a fast and loose game of
pin the bomb on the Muslim
and dream of the day when the Fertile Crescent
is dotted with gated communities
called Fakewood and Arabian Heights
and who unload cargo planes full of Xanax
on a public that is now convinced that having a
conscience
is actually Clinical Depression
and can be cured
And so,
as we are being outsourced, repurposed and pole-axed
in the name of a lantern-jawed myth stamped Security
As I lie in bed in the morning,
lounging in a sudsy bath of gratitude
to a certain omnipresent
intergalactic
fast food Unisource
for vowing to swipe my major credit card,
I grow weary of the shallow rhythm of my own mean
invective
Cynicism tastes rancid
Every action I contemplate feels like a mistake waiting
to be made,
and I want more than anything
to be reunited with the strength of will
I seem to have dropped along the way,
a child too burdensome to carry
and left by the road.
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