Prisoners of Plenty

It’s Friday, the day after thanksgiving
and bloated bodies, infused
with fierce anticipation of scoring
even more trinkets and gadgets
at a discount on credit,
have been up since 1 am,
perhaps earlier, standing
in long lines in the dark
in front of stores.
Some even bring tents
to get an earlier
advantage.
.
As soon as the doors open, they’ll
eagerly make their way in,
nudging and pushing and slobbering,
stripped of the remaining remnants
of human decency, with the sole
intention of possessing
another object they
think will bring them
happiness
or improve upon their inner
despondency.

Sanctimonious servants of the
status quo, forever kneeling
at the altar of heedless
consumption, their
only function.

And Proust and Emerson remain
unread
and the wildflowers on the
side of the road remain
unnoticed
as with the stars that hang
in the night.

One of the last great American poets
died this week at the ripe
old age of 94.

Robert Bly.

However, like his words,
his death is of no
consequence
to the early morning consumers
elbowing their way to
the TV section.

They have never read anything
or pondered on anything
beyond the advertisements
suggested to them.

“Reclaiming the sacred in our lives
naturally brings us close once more
to the wellsprings of poetry,”
writes the poet. But our ears
are no longer equipped
to hear his cry.

The very few important figures
in the western world have always
been ignored.

And everything that is beautiful
and profound has been buried
beneath the ruins of false progress
and the illusion of security.

Children of a hollowed-out empire,
habitual flesh with a childlike
understanding of what’s
going on in the world, they
continue their relentless quest
to satisfy their synthetic
appetites,
relinquishing their lives to an
insidious system
that sustains itself merely
by their submission,
their fidelity.

They deem this — good citizenship.
Patriotism.

The American Dream at last,
an endless commercial, an emotional
wasteland plagued with shopping centers,
quick-marts, theme parks, and prisons,
the sunny afternoon suburban streets
as desolate as the souls who inhabit them,
the good folks bustling and bantering,
gorging themselves to death on Netflix
and the never-ending news cycle,
spouting facts to conceal
their illiteracy.

Crowds
Consumption
Congestion
Chaos

The epitome of
modernity.

Prisoners of plenty,
severed from the
spirit.

2 thoughts on “Prisoners of Plenty

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