As with Life, Civilization
follows the sun, beginning in
the East and ending in the West

                    I’m not interested in
                    writing for idiots
                    either you do or you don’t
                    get it, those who can, will
                    understand, follow these lines

and apprehend truth eluding
like an unbranded fugitive
the comprehension of confused

masses, herded by their bovine
mentality’s noose to their own
destruction, hooves instead of hands

                    loxodrome minds programmed by
                    corporate designers
                    hiding inside mobile phones
                    what autopilots and
                    obliges blindness with straight

                    orientations and louder
                    stereotypes, orders
                    determining courses for
                    them originating
                    from within, where none venture

for fear of encountering what
anyone with ears to hear knows
that nothing’s there, that they’re all (g)hosts

no plague wants to call home, zombied
drones with backlit tans backhanded
by what can’t wake these walking dead

what I make isn’t intended
for their eyes, isn’t that instant
gratification kind of li(f)e

                    this unsolicited waste
                    of a generation
                    buys, not feigned abuse weak prose
                    disguised as verse seeks to
                    capitalize on when it’s

                    spoken, no, mine isn’t some
                    “curated” confession
                    dressed up as a performance
                    navigating its shoals
                    what “filth” my pen jettisons

                    is this continent’s baggage
                    an incontinence of
                    false entitlement’s crudest
                    sewage, my defiant
                    verbiage its reflection.