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"ghosthood" poems
Could you know enough to know that       you don't know anything about       any one particular thing at any       given time? Enough to feel your mind first mildly       groping for some association about the       topic at hand, then scratching in panic       at its own gray walls for a segue into       something more familiar? A subject change. There sits in Spring a mournful child wishing       for winter and the necessity of layers,       the easy task of coercing his mother       into hugs because without them, he says,       he'll surely freeze to death, a phantom son,       a display case of old human progeny       from the time before love was outlawed       and before the babies were made with       chemicals, when they were made at all. Those future children will die with no       souls, no prospect of ghosthood, no       morals and no literary merit. They will flinch from fiction and pound poetry       into the ground with steel-toed boots, spit       on the remains, pretend to dream with their       government-issued flashcards, scenes       from movies projected on billboards in silence,       ears ringing in the quiet but for the       occasional puttering along of a society so       advanced, it doesn't know what to do with itself.
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Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 10:25 AM UTC
megan-kellerman
This Is Very Old
Could you know enough to know that       you don't know anything about       any one particular thing at any       given time? Enough to feel your mind first mildly       groping for some association about the       topic at hand, then scratching in panic       at its own gray walls for a segue into       something more familiar? A subject change. There sits in Spring a mournful child wishing       for winter and the necessity of layers,       the easy task of coercing his mother       into hugs because without them, he says,       he'll surely freeze to death, a phantom son,       a display case of old human progeny       from the time before love was outlawed       and before the babies were made with       chemicals, when they were made at all. Those future children will die with no       souls, no prospect of ghosthood, no       morals and no literary merit. They will flinch from fiction and pound poetry       into the ground with steel-toed boots, spit       on the remains, pretend to dream with their       government-issued flashcards, scenes       from movies projected on billboards in silence,       ears ringing in the quiet but for the       occasional puttering along of a society so       advanced, it doesn't know what to do with itself.
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