It’s everywhere
At least, its signs are.
On my car, my
laptop
(But I drive to work, check Facebook)
On my
philosophy book
(Which I read in a dealership,
sipping Coke©)
Tucked deep in
a fold only dry-cleaners see
(DO NOT REMOVE UNDER PENALTY OF LAW)
Sprawled for
the rush hour traffic of Rt. 9
Even in my deepest, most
intimate thoughts, I find it
lurking.
It beckons, calls, allures
Sometimes it attempts a complex, multisyllabic approach
to seducing me
Or other times, it’s as little as one, tiny
word.
Maybe, once in a while, I’ll catch it as a letter
P, or sometimes G
What’s worse, sometimes it has the audacity
to
approach me as some silly little picture
like a fucking assembly of five
rings
or semicircles reminiscent of the
great flock West
or an incessant
jingle, loud only enough to be heard, not acknowledged
(their
interpretation of Pavlov)
Doesn’t really matter where, or when, or in what form it
finds me
because it will.
They’re everywhere, the signs
And when I see them for what they are,
tears,
blood
subordination
beyond the imagination of someone in our
Was
it second? Fourth world?
society
could ever imagine
they often make me cringe.
Or, if I’m lucky, the window of understanding will crack
slightly more open
(if they
let it)
and I might just shed one solitary tear,
for
those people I don’t know. Won’t know. Can’t know.
But don’t worry. I’ll forget about it.
