The the only real differences
between this reality

and dystopia

that I can discern now

are set design and lighting.

Wind howling through trees
outside my bedroom window.
Hands. Childhood fears.

Quiet White Boys
wearing awkward glasses
sporting clean haircuts
and boring polo shirts

keep to themselves,
don’t know how to draw boundaries,
don’t know how to reach out,
and don't know how to reach inward.

They eschew the material world
in favor of a false digital one,

and there, in the simulacrum,
they find a modicum of validation—
a reinforcement of a kernel
of a horribly flawed idea:

that they have somehow been more victimized
than the victims all around them—

the women,
the racial minorities,
the people afraid to practice their own religion,
the people afraid to live as their true gender,
the people suffering with mental illness,
the people suffering with domestic violence,
the girls who were sexually molested,
the girls who were *****,
and so on,
and so forth.

The Quiet White Boys
learn that they are victims
from other Quiet White Boys,

and together they conclude
that, because they have been victimized,
they may therefore
act heedlessly, aggressively,

hatefully, mercilessly

in furtherance of
what they view to be justice.

But it is a distorted, fractured
version of justice
that they seek—
fetishized by the red, screaming faces
with loud megaphones
and debilitated, sickly hearts
in the digital basement
where the Quiet White Boys have chosen
to live.

A torch-carrying mob
has never delivered real justice—

not once in the entire history of human civilization, in fact—

and a slate gray Dodge Challenger
barreling into a crowd at fifty miles per hour
is not an instrument of justice, either—

it is just a reflection
seen through a shattered mirror.

And shattered mirrors
don’t come unshattered
simply because other
Quiet White Boys
are gazing into them with you.

On

my

deathbed,

I hope that I am visited by
what I think are angels

or demons
(it doesn’t really matter which)

and,

as I wheeze out my last breath,
they reveal to me

that I was actually an alien
from another world

trapped
in the misshapen body of a human

for the entirety
of my existence—

all 28,000-or-so

days of it.

Because
then,

my role in
this whole charade

would finally make sense:

all of the mind-numbing

awkwardness

and suffering

and bullying

and incomprehensibility

of the world

laid out before me—

a picnic for a malnourished soul
to finally feast upon,

a glistening Colorado River to drink from

and,

at long last,
to rest beside.

In retrospect,

the nicest part
of that whole afternoon—

what with that summer sunlight,
cascading down onto the sward

where you and I
sat in the deep shade of a noble oak tree—

the nicest part
of that whole afternoon—

what with that dignified roar from Yosemite Falls
resounding throughout the valley

and those songbirds chirping out a perfect counterpoint
in the immediate foreground,

the nicest part
of that whole afternoon—

what with the dry dirt of that flawlessly unkempt
softball field warming our bare toes,

and those children playing—
their shadows ever lengthening—
in that eternal Eden…

In retrospect,

the nicest part
of that

entire

afternoon

was getting to spend it
with you.

We have many ideals,
but we do not seem to have idealists anymore.

We have droves of problem solvers,
but we do not seem to have solutions anymore.

We have endless media discourse,
but we do not seem to have dialogue anymore.

We have unrestrained capitalism,
but we do not seem to have money anymore.

We have innumerable drugs,
but we do not seem to have treatment anymore.

We have scores of Baby Boomers,
but we do not seem to have elders anymore.

We have unlimited vacation days,
but we do not seem to have days off anymore.

We have incalculable amounts of information,
but we do not seem to have facts anymore.

We have regular, established elections,
but we do not seem to have elected officials anymore.

We have America,
but we do not seem to have a nation anymore.

My eyes

are sinking back into

my skull.

They leave two gaunt

craters

in the skin beneath each lower

eyeflap,

each which now darkens and

dissociates itself

from

a healthy pigmentation—

much in the same

fashion

as that in which I

myself

have darkened

and dissociated

from reality