Chasing the American Dream

"Why do my eyes hurt?"


"You've never used them before..."

(The Matrix-1999)

It is the single
oldest
thing, not in
this universe--
but in modern
civilization

Not LOVE,
not WAR
this is God
in our capitalist centric
indentured servant
worker-based
pod-slave, complacent
Nacirema nation

We seek out the green
backs, dead faces portraying
leaders- here & past
Andy Jackson, Queen
Liz'beth, Ben Franks,
and Trujillo's
smiles gleam from
nicotine-patch needled
addictive G-stacks.

Root of all
lethal acts,
Evil hatched from
the pursuit of supposed
Happiness
yet lead you down
the lonely path
of emptiness
we crave-night, day
with a crackhead-scratch
we itch

leaving us searching for
Zion
in tight designer jeans
only praying for a
new Beam-W,
or 52-inch flat-plasma
TV screen
these etherial, superficial
things, invaluable-
materialism is the
crying creed for which
why we die, to raise
the dead sea.

Pursuant of the
virtual, nothing
of real certitude
like family, legacy
any greater dream-
MLK rings through
am I tripping, or does
this sound absurd to you too?

Aim for the 'finer things'
yet none worth having
in actuality
there's no comforting
thoughts, which can be
bought
when the brain
atrophies


Once
more
down
the
rabbit hole
we keep chasing
gnosis
or illusion
the differentiating
decision is
yours for
the choosing

is it escapism
or harm, some alarming
example for youths
in programs which we view, do
you control- advertisements,
computers, palm-held devices
or do remotes control
you?

(Whoa, Déjà Vu)

Red Pill:

Swallow reality
skin-trembling injection,
booster shot of absolute
truth
which we resist facing
at all costs, yet no
ascribed medication
can replace holes in
a soul gaping

Blue Pill:

Amist a cloudy, falsified
paradise
we remain mirage-induced
by own fantasy
mescaline high of
denial, alive in
a hologram, we hang
blind- from a
dissolving noose,
hollow caracass
in Gucci shoes

we are all afraid of
what don't come easy--
a life lived in lie isn't
worth living in the least,
see, when numb- cerebrum
loses feeling, unless
your mind don't mind
finding ladders to climb
toward Sistine
ceilings, collapsing insight
before Michael-
angelo paints himself
a single angel's jawline.

Simulated plush, luscious,
rich, brush-stroke
Skies
absent of clouds,
no rain in drought
can shelter birds,
heaven, sun or air,
with demon-stars above
an unnatural disaster,
no miraculous beauty
could ever survive

Build not your temple
of sand, but mud-
a red permanent clay
concrete which won't leak
from money-lust existant
on Earth to speak
leaves none spinning;
auburn autumnal leaves
or grows impure pits
into peach trees

invest in knowledge, love,
encourage success-
which can't be
stressed or measured
in funds
and someday you
may detach tubes,
and become the One
to unplug.

Perhaps it's all come
just a glitch too late
the body dies when inside
without mind to dictate
and it's hard to digest
a harsh truth, when fed
too soon, going against all
we ever knew-
All one can do is
show you the door,
it's up to you
to walk through.







"Ignorance is not bliss; it is consented idiocy"



-myself





(c) Paul LaTorre 2010