crickets

To the empty night and the crickets in the city

There are no drunkards shouting or squealing tasty tires past my house

There are no half naked girls dancing in strobe lights

No music or laughter or anyone at all, around

Just this alcoholic drinking to himself

Smoking to death

Reverberating

The infrastructure is abandoned

Nobody is any worse off

The skeletal remains of legacy machines

Crashed into a glacier without

Ever having a pilot

And, and, like twist sideways

Twitch, mold, and move into

Their ridiculous garbage

Trucks, mics, and Jesus

God and the telephone, forget your bribes

Civil, social, no mostly existential rebellion

I wanted those cars to speed by,

Chose for those people to stop and ask for directions

I gouge open my wounds, to disturb delicate flesh

Turmoil in the repair

Contort and disrupt

Unset unrelentingly

Waves of numb

Succumb irritated nerves

Puff and swell

Dissolve and forget

Where is this real world I hear about?

In conferences or presentations, group meetings and orientations, learning assignments and educational instruction?

Is it in our businesses or free trade economy, maybe it’s the product, or the process

The service industry, or the entertainment industry

Maybe its in your fame, or your perfect family, perfect mind and soul

Maybe its in your food or your exercise routine

Maybe its in your art or your diary entries, or short stories

Maybe its our ambitions or hopes, or dreams that are so often defined only by our failures

Or maybe its just an accident that we find along the way