Common Sense Endures A New Apocalypse
Phones revealed what has been wrong with people for a very,
very long time. Every overeager, understimulated, needy,
first-world complaint of people so utterly surrounded by
convenience, their collective response has been to press
themselves to every inconvenience they can imagine.
Before phones, I never rented an apartment from
anyone who composed a monologue of 30 pounds of
bullshit in a 2 lb. canister, rattling her concentrated
gibberish like some desperate refugee from a country that
doesn't exist anymore, then playing the recorded message
to my bewildered, worried face like some nonagenarian
virgin who's only just discovered that vibrators are real.
Before phones (as we know them) there were no multi-
billion dollar technology companies creating zillions of
unfuckable adbots for millions of un-wanted users
like some David Lynch rip-off nightmares mixed with
lazy/bullshit John Waters "impersonations" nor the e-
lectric razors & ad-skip societies hot on the heels
of giant FORD FORD FORD trucks like so many
sorry-dinosaur toys that have proceeded them.
Before phones as we know them, as we know them today,
there were some handicaps that have since been eradicated,
and, yes, some people still do use the internet to do any sort
of research or to have a good time, on purpose, but then
that's hardly very many of us, is it?
****
The 40 objects of meditation
ReplyDeletedo not specifically include the
retreating testicles of the
cornerstore junkie.
But they should.
The half-animal's schedule
could certainly double as
a point-for-point diagram
of the Dharma and the
diagnosis it serves
to those of a credible
attention span.
The words virtually slither
from the desexed fiends mouth:
obviously lies, daily printed, distributed
to the speaking/listening audience,
tossed, or bobbing like a cradle
in the ebb and flow of its
effort -- more ebb than flow.
And the chatter of the damned
brings memory of paper & glass,
the long list of worlds their
hollow boned legs didn't carry them to.
Every day stabs against livelihood.
Every day a hashmark on a wall
of a building that never was and
will never, no matter how long, be constructed.
Where dirtmouth and his
therapy peers
gather morosely in the
shade, beneath
a tree and a sky that
emerged from a profound
devastation-- the debris
of supernova, the ruthlessly
cold winds of physics --
that will endure & labor
long after their cells are
entirely foreign,
the mistake of them
no longer even relevant
to itself.
****