Poem: What’s in There?
You could say our addiction to convenience and comfort has been successfully repackaged as the highest end for our brilliant technological means.
Or, you could say that we’re in the grip of a nationwide plague. Of…A.D.D.
Or, you could say we’re simply a country of poorly developed adult minds with the collective attention span of squirrels during mating season.
Or, you could look up, my fellow fool – if you can tear yourself away from the sacred screen.
You’ll see discontented Americans waddling morosely to their cars, wondering why having more of everything hasn’t yet made them happier about anything.
No one smiles at me on the street, anymore. Yeah, that bond has been broken. We can’t look each other in the eye.
Because we’re all face-down in our palms, making marvelous use of the opposable thumbs God gave us and our fellow monkeys. They’re digging for grubs. We’re digging for likes.
We spend our life masquerading at connectivity, all the while blatantly broadcasting our narcissistic vanity and alienation from humanity.
Faced with such insanity, this mental disability, comporting yourself with honesty is an abdication of fiduciary responsibility.
Only the foolhardy write novels for a thumb-tapping zombie.
Confessing anything philosophical, lyrical, satirical, whimsical, spiritual, heretical, theoretical, antithetical is a kind of offense to a society obsessed with the empirical, willing to reduce the infinite to a decimal, where soulless drones trolling for the future on corporate computers sit in sterile homogenous innumerably anonymous cubicles.
It’s a minor crime to compose your rhymes for “readers” who consume the vast sublime 140-characters (or less) at a time.
This is literature for people who hate to read.
This is the exchange of privacy for speed.
This is a public party line, where geographically separated souls can scream into a reassuring vacuum and feel slightly less alone.
But you won’t find God. And you won’t find love. And you won’t find truth staring at your phone.