Amusement
by
Michael Amram
Each
generation is a symphony
of
reasons, its motives to write its mortality
the
unique ability to codify its seasons
wading
past muck, sucked sound raking war for
opposition
it generates, paranoia for seeds of
propaganda
it promulgates; the sequestered
cage
rattles and rages, it's set out with bleachers
for
sons' prodigy, set out to carry their destinies, to wager
on
scores like the twenty-first centurions,
paralyzed
gladiators with opposable thumbs,
figure-headed
charlatans with transparencies;
growing
swaths of wind amusing climatology
nursing
skeptics, foes of syndicated serenity
copious
cataclysmic kleptocratic telepathy to
transfix
Atlantic currency, bowing
sycophants
to Bolsheviks and dictatorial
Tudor
mansion pupae, hatching them,
papier-mâché
cocoons wrap in gossamer and feels
of
Guccifer butterflys in ointments for democracy,
and
generations learn to hear a tympani,
what
drives the fife, the drum beaten too long
aisles
of dichotomous origin end along the seams
the
concerted refuse of ages of betrayal
of
the pre-fucked, baked-in-cake portrayals
of
discoveries in litigation, dictated stenographic
imaginations
and bulbous-balled parasites
feeding
upon UN-dead presidents, a massage of toupee
tenderness,
spots that can't exist, learn, or expire
alone,
can't conspire to obstruct a next generation's
shot
at legitimate government or the
chance
to get ahead, or just break even like the
angelic
types who accept it all, shove words
down
God's throat as though it were their own, kneeling
to
genuflect toward heaven's stairs, looking toward
Mecca,
proctoring prayers, divulging rudimentary Sabbath
brain-pan
coterie, simple inseminated scripts
for
genial puns of potpourri, leafleted parchments of text
lauding
disparate, vociferous candidates
enthused
with the scents and drinking in their oils
Each
generation's home grown war,
each
decade's debate destined to proliferate
each
narrative willing to conflate
like
individual lessons that conspires, weans
itself
free to conjugate conversation
to
the future in tense, leaving the past alone
in
commiserate soulfully apparitions of
a
glass that's empty as halves full with sounds
of
WI-fi hash-tag hieroglyphics on cave
walls
in the South of France where naked
options
fester and pocket protesters
are
not obscene to wear, forgot like clickish
sounds
of ball-point pens, eliciting traces
of
Pavlovian salivants marked for doves standing
with
pigeoned toes, the fluid flow best fights
drifts
in wind's gusted blows, caught dust of gilded
tribes
of civility, a phalanx shielded by the
might
in military, their book-ended, all their storied
sounds
to worry right, scared to shine
a
sliver of light on hypocrisy, hawking
hackneyed
words of an ostracized dove
left
calling for alternatives to war's ornithology
Each
generation gets a prop up
doll,
a marionette of its incarnate, martyrs
that
wear thin the silk sleeves of
billowing
pirate shirts, the mandated
blouses
buccaneers past had
commissioned,
crows' nest lackeys said
to
have spat at legends, antitheses
of
myths to fathom, recreating the initial
crimes,
abrogation to resurrect
the
deadened zombie veterans recanting
their
pledge every day, stories war
doesn't
hear, its lies to falls in rice dikes and
US
jails, its guilt My Son left through
hails
to hymns in lieu of Bill, of company
C
who lost themselves to leave
M-16
grave markers where all the flowers
went,
the missed thatching of huts
where
young men raped and burned with
nary
a distant repent in their eyes;
Each
generation won't see, won't
hear,
its enemy, acronyms intentionally
led
askew for truths, halves, or
the
omniscience construed alternate fact,
the
truth's built from scratch, from
tar-paper
and mortar shot-gun shacks, a kind
of
PTSD that sews the seedlings of belligerence
old
sods of foreign wars, of ISIS, KKK, Nazis
all
domestic terrorists, and Lee leaves
a
cue, and the Confederacy becomes a statue, for
treason
of traitors in paralyzed, diseased
family
trees, the sons of Civil War, of conscription
and
commutation, of the “rich man's war
and
poor man's fight,” immortal cliques sound under
whiter
sheets that terrorized blacks and white
southern
vets who opposed the war, they find
the
weak links, the one who won't get
the
alternative facts, who thinks outside, hears
without
boxed in ears, the vets who
see
a world that exudes their peers' dissonance
Each
generation must bear a cross
resembling
prior crucified fixated fools
for
hire, burning crosses so their
flames
will rise incrementally higher, so the
smoke
dissipates, embers bifurcate
a
reciprocal nature of sons in fathers' sire
conflagration's
drones, and stealing
books
for statues' dates to expire, mediums to
acquire
history's exponential limitations,
the
right empirical infatuations with alternative
fascist
facts, reactionary pacts with Lucifer
a
Goebbels faux simile, a knock-off brand of pious
homophobic
stoicism called Pence-again,
to
know best what God wants, to predict His vigilance
to
cut and codify His imminence, the ICEd
trail,
the leads to DACA's vast deferential operations,
clandestine
ligation and forced fetal deliveries
waggling
abortions by AGs who scar interstitial linings
the
seminal supplementation's generation, they're
just
leaves to shade and prognosticate the symbol's fugue. . .
and
it lasts, circles itself viciously, in the end, vicariously
to
amuse us to death
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