children no longer obey their parents,
and everybody is writing a book.
      circa 1914 - 1924a.d.

away with you to the lyricist!
    and not to the earth bound roughage
of toil and till -
      or was that not the first encouragement?
have not but the first sipped water
   of these optical realm, fused more
than as modern antidote has it -
   been more intoxicating to see as if a first
dawn of Belshazzar?
              have these not been the invitations
   for scaling the summit of tw. Babylon?
then indeed, not with care or plush attire,
have we descended into an idle affair -
for the insurmountable cohort rattled
even the lesser who still struck a chord of
defiance and belittled by the world: mused.
as so much of love pours onto paper -
             and a paper that later becomes a slab
of stone, plunges with splash and splatter into
the sea as unknown as that, which
encompases the orbit of Neptune -
                 in that void and in that void,
        can we rarely find a bottle to bottle all
things concerning, up.
           or is that: man can no longer play monopoly
with the medium, or indeed he can:
      nuance layered upon nuance layered upon
insinuation, layered upon metaphor,
layered upon non-literalism, layered upon
   literalism, layered upon pun, layered upon
abstract, layered upon fear, layered upon
politics, correct?
                                  by the allotropes of carbon!
to the times when one could say one thing and
one thing only and feel a *will toward something
being testimony of unequivocal thoughts!
at a time when not everyone practiced politics
on such a scale, or wasn't prescribed
a journalistic career on the sly,
          when it fact: mere charity work.
life for life, word for word, deed for deed -
                       and to hell with human circumstance:
whether awe-struck, or awe-bound,
                     or as most can attest... neither.
now all is said, but nothing can be done -
       for now the only thing being said
   is a question of whether it be vogue
                                or ragged mops strewn
across a dark cupboard space -
as too the warm doughnuts and baguettes
on a Monday morning with headlines and
articles and opinion sections and photographs
and adverts... nothing more
                    than toilet paper already used
to wipe one's ****... lying facedown in
a puddle on some street: by the afternoon.
perhaps this too be a melancholy art,
        akin to the journalistic endeavour -
and perhaps both the hope in poetry as the hope
in journalism: is for at least a single
memorable day to be nothing but a sabbath.
could this world ever envision a media sabbath?
probably not... as this poem suggests...
   and another, and another... and...