stillfugue

Pushing the mower,
being painted by the slightest
anxiety as she awoke
from her slumber, reckoning

it was her time as the bankruptcy
of a culture is pervaded
by the luminosity of the day,
seemingly bent on the reduction

of the anima down to the carcasses
of winter’s solace from the deep affinity
for ice hockey, as the voice in a box
screams about the horrific need

to turn up the radio, to turn down
the TV, and thus the angst,
for the radio will not play back
with the DVR, so the show is ruined,

and how critical is this to the spirit?
Are you ready for some football, you,
you inane American with a vacuous
soul? Will you fulfill your life’s aspirations

by watching the drama on the field,
admittedly a drama with greater alacrity,
greater clarity than that of your own,
flat, foggy life, you, you with the dearth

of spirit.

.