High White Stars
What have we learned?
Have we learned?
I mean really learned, rather than mistaking the passage of time for growth, inconscient,
rather than regret
or sorrow for not keeping a promise to a friend.
Rather you than me, buddy, as clammy,
jellied men make art
of fraudulent wordplay. A conscienceless ability to neglect reality and press on regardless,
bewildered; the first time like the last time, like the sixth time, like the next time.
Is this the last time?
I’m unsure, but therein lies the point. He wears a necktie
and he’s into real estate, that much is true
and everything else is up for grabs; a pale black canvas to be painted, unfinished and bereft of any real appetite for closure, as we move to yet another confusing episode of gradually lessening import; shifting
and sands and gearsticks that crunch under the guiding claws of the kind of people who should never have been tasked with operating even the most basic of heavy machinery.
Intolerable beasts who make the world ugly and loud beneath high white stars; shining ancient lights that could, if some other design were at work, have shone quite bright enough to illuminate their meanness; and this, too, would have been a wonder.