Into the babble of lost souls
I was born
The year: 1959
Through basements of urban angst,
Labyrinths of malice,
Apocalypses of greed,
I have wandered.
Under lilacs I have languished.
Their sweet sent
Unable to penetrate my indolence.
I cannot imagine the latitude of my actions.
I am unable to conceive of what I construct.
I am only human.
And we humans are smaller than ourselves.
The raging schizophrenia of our day;
That is, the fact that our diverse faculties work
Independently of each other like isolated and
Uncoordinated beings who have lost all contact with each other.
Here is where we learned the habits of acrimony,
The culture of money,
The file cabinets, cubicles, stairwells, elevators, hallways of money.
The factories of money.
In the Universities and laboratories of money.
In the Theaters and Galleries of money.
In the Cathedrals of money.
On the Plazas and Blvds of money.
Money: An Ocean of syringes that light up the sky.
Money: the agenda of hidden libidos.
It is money that makes cowards of us all in that we
Haven’t the courage to be afraid; for fear belongs to those feelings
Which we are unwilling to realize.
That is we can only fear what we can imagine.
- A fear commiserate with the threat-
The real spectra of violence
The unfathomable machinations of the apparatus of greed
This is the apocalypse, this is the thing.
This is the age of the inability to fear.
We are incapable of imagining the thing, the apparatus,
We are incapable of answering for the thing, the apparatus, the apocalypse
And so we live in the age of the competence craze.
The age experts.
The age of Judges, Doctors, Politicians and Scientist. In them we invest our fear,
For they, we believe, see what we cannot imagine,
they can answer questions that we cannot ask
and be responsible for the apparatus
but they are created by the apparatus
for the perpetuation of the apparatus
but the apparatus divest everybody, including those who decide upon its use of responsibility .
So much so that there is no one left to answer for its doing,
and far and near there is nothing to be seen but the charred lands of the miserable, and the radiantly good conscience of the stupid.
Henry Freean MacWilliams c Oct. 2012