PASSERBY
I saw dystopian me again walking right past me while I sat in the car behind the steering wheel, my good foot on the bad brake.
And, I followed, with my eyes, his unwavering profile and his shabby, laden cart while you asked me to call the doctors I have to see, so I and they can try to heal the many ailments of me and fissures to my knee that came about through all those years of fighting love—yours and all the others—trying to tamp down the greedy, voracious, felative mouth of violence, somehow so much a part of me, with strings of shrunken heads and broken hearts, with parlor tricks and custard tarts.
I always kept one in the belly and inside-out, and so much more, because I knew there must be someone like you and me out there, all locked down and loaded up with knives and notes and barstool posts waiting, too, to answer the crow’s sugar coated licorice caw of too many betrayals and betrothed ghosts, lying injustices and surly hosts.
Loss leader losers, murderous and unkind, foisted upon a litany of me and mine, time after time, my kith and kind, all banal deaths and decades long slaveries, indentured servitude bravery, deceits and detours and dilettantes, a converging locust plague pestilence so cowardly, leaving me bereft of any progeny, no familiar scent of infant hair or the silent speech of radiance bare.
They were all always drowned prior to birth, right before my very eyes, drowned in the dead pool, cesspool swamp of of blackened, whorish hearts, idealized hero inadequacies of bleeding starts, the fears of enemies in finely knitted narrative knots, leaving me, in this end, all without except for knives and guns and books—a clever coat and surveillance hooks.
Hyper-tactile algorithmic, metadated analytic, rolling hard strategies cum realities that only seem like fantasies to you, but not me, because I lived their truths and reality and live them still in real-time travel-time while you pay your mortgage and your bills—but you are still you, not me, for I dream and remember and manifest again and again the war you gave me, the strife with which you saved me, right there in the back of my mind.
A war of the exploited and dead, variegated and navigated like a living topography of epigenesis and nuance across a glowing matte black GIS mapping of all those bones and boners that jut out of pants and patrimony, that obfuscate and adorn with sanctimony the finiteness of this particular patch of endlessness which will finish for now, soon enough, so I can finally get on with the dirty work of eternity.
I hear a tambourine jangle somewhere far behind and to the left of me as dystopian me with his cart of precious junk and dust, his weathered hat and unmoving face and mighty funk, moves across the driveway and out of my way, to finally let me pass him by—for now—only to meet him again and again in, this, the great by and by.
—akm
© Ara Mgrdichian
And, I followed, with my eyes, his unwavering profile and his shabby, laden cart while you asked me to call the doctors I have to see, so I and they can try to heal the many ailments of me and fissures to my knee that came about through all those years of fighting love—yours and all the others—trying to tamp down the greedy, voracious, felative mouth of violence, somehow so much a part of me, with strings of shrunken heads and broken hearts, with parlor tricks and custard tarts.
I always kept one in the belly and inside-out, and so much more, because I knew there must be someone like you and me out there, all locked down and loaded up with knives and notes and barstool posts waiting, too, to answer the crow’s sugar coated licorice caw of too many betrayals and betrothed ghosts, lying injustices and surly hosts.
Loss leader losers, murderous and unkind, foisted upon a litany of me and mine, time after time, my kith and kind, all banal deaths and decades long slaveries, indentured servitude bravery, deceits and detours and dilettantes, a converging locust plague pestilence so cowardly, leaving me bereft of any progeny, no familiar scent of infant hair or the silent speech of radiance bare.
They were all always drowned prior to birth, right before my very eyes, drowned in the dead pool, cesspool swamp of of blackened, whorish hearts, idealized hero inadequacies of bleeding starts, the fears of enemies in finely knitted narrative knots, leaving me, in this end, all without except for knives and guns and books—a clever coat and surveillance hooks.
Hyper-tactile algorithmic, metadated analytic, rolling hard strategies cum realities that only seem like fantasies to you, but not me, because I lived their truths and reality and live them still in real-time travel-time while you pay your mortgage and your bills—but you are still you, not me, for I dream and remember and manifest again and again the war you gave me, the strife with which you saved me, right there in the back of my mind.
A war of the exploited and dead, variegated and navigated like a living topography of epigenesis and nuance across a glowing matte black GIS mapping of all those bones and boners that jut out of pants and patrimony, that obfuscate and adorn with sanctimony the finiteness of this particular patch of endlessness which will finish for now, soon enough, so I can finally get on with the dirty work of eternity.
I hear a tambourine jangle somewhere far behind and to the left of me as dystopian me with his cart of precious junk and dust, his weathered hat and unmoving face and mighty funk, moves across the driveway and out of my way, to finally let me pass him by—for now—only to meet him again and again in, this, the great by and by.
—akm
© Ara Mgrdichian
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