I must apologize for writing about something as
well traversed as life.
I could try to say
something new about how life is decades made of
milliseconds and how its the madness of individual seconds
infinitely similar and different from the last,
how even in this poem another baby was born
a person
selling their soul has had their soul stolen,
a family now cry’s in the sunlit  hospital room
, a final laugh.


And many have continued watching their show
and many more have scrolled farther down on Facebook.
I could get into how much of a waste Facebook is
but the internet has plenty of that, about how
Facebook is hiding its bodies
behind your likes. People getting curious
and now catacombs of
relationships for static pictures,
new friends.
How what makes madness is mundanity.
Seconds are indifferent to your pleas of
slowing them in glory, or
killing them in frequent fights.
All this has been said by far more fluent and affluent writers,
if I dare call myself a writer.

The most valuable currency, more than the purest
gold, endless mansions, yet discarded completely.

No
more believers of a flat world to chase in circles.
It is not the flat world getting rounded edges.
A mortal crowned immortal leaps
off a cliff,
. Over and over again.
The flies indifferent, to the valiant cries.
Forests cleared out for the
bodies. For leftovers.

Perhaps I’m being a pessimist.
Maybe I’m over thinking, maybe
this is a fools outburst.

A parade of innovation, each float welcomed
with happy smiles. If a wheel pauses
smiles soon give way
to confusion and disappointment, if the parade
stops without rockets (those dancers)
or a marching band playing, faces all to
quick to sour.  

The parade playing out
perminately.
And Happy citizens dance to
the same ******* song, over and over.
Now that ******* parade the most important
thing, the center piece of
the capital.

Meanwhile gensiusis and gods alike
tinker away at the rusty gears.
Yet with the new machines
new gears must rust over.
Excellent minds, ending witch hunts, apartheid,
inventing computers, creating tanks
ending slavery and supposedly racism.
Where do they go?
Would the lack of rusty gears cause
the whole dam thing to explode?
Do we need problems so we can
relish the moment of vanishing
them!?
What would it look like, if we had justice
and peace and fair non
racist police?
If we didn’t have scummy bankers?
Could we exist without Satin?
Would those gods and geniuses  be
put down? Should I be writing a letter,
Dear Satin thanks for keeping those gods in
business,
with love and respect
your faithful subjects.  


I do apologize if this has been said
by far fluent and affluent writers if I dare call myself
a writer, or if this was an outburst often
shouted by a believer in the flat world.