CORPUS KALEB
SIMULACRA
We look at the urban bitterness
Through rusted meshed screen
Swarmed over by multitudes
Of indiscriminate mosquitoes
When my hands placed under the lintel instead of the thigh,
Pushing out the squalor forever encapsulating my station, my status.
Forming walls around transparent facades,
Making something from nothing,
Lacing things in our greedy hands
Which will never be recognizable
What has this world become?
Representative of what we want, what we think we need
Identified by objects
Burdened with fear of loss
Of things which are formed, injected, not created
Beauty is surface, like life in the now
Where real is unreal
And unreal is Simulacra
If we stare through the window long enough
We find, we see, the frames
Forming the micro making up the Meta
Who knows enough to know?
See through the veneer
Shinning like Jell-O, green gold and gone
We walk, stroll, saunter
In shoes made for the cracked pavement
Forever there only removed to entomb
An idea of being, never really born
Never really told either
Turned on like the "Machines of Loving Grace"
Automatic, self-repairing, always dependent upon flawed design
Destined to crumble at the hands
Of a concept
Has time has come full circle?
Opening chasms dreaming of things we think existed
Causing us to float
Up in a bubble of plastic and saccharine wastes
Over an edgy plane, ragged and tired
Falling into itself, to space
Have we become the point?
Defined without dimension.
Gravity giving up long ago
And Newton and Bohr play footsie with the atom
Laughing at naivety
Ours not theirs
Where has water pooled, finding no place to mud up, no fissures?
We store things in jars from fear of contamination
Loaded with benzene, purposefully packed with nitrate
Breaking bonds
Forming cancerous compounds in acidic puddles
Causing us to cry for ourselves
Our loved ones, always looking back to where we have been
Finding paths leading to other ways
My left foot finds the right’s print
New heel to old toe
Always asking why
Why is the sky not there?
