“Do I understand you?”
Well, obviously not.
If I did,
Or even if I could,
Do you think we’d be here?
At the impasse of all generations:
Us vs them.
Every day,
(But less so in the night,
Whenever I can fade away,
From sight of my neighbors,
My betters and my peers,)
I veer further from anything that might be called,
Communion.
Or rememberance.
Or, fuck, even recognition,
When it comes to my fellow actors.
Maybe the source of my confusion,
Is borne from a mistake of casting:
All this time I dreamt I could be a leading man,
But what if I am destined,
( as if there ever could be such a thing)
To the ranks of stagehand,
A back-alley dealer who crafts illusions through mastery of space,
While letting time slip away,
Relegated to the control of the director,
AKA the moral metronome,
Who decides when the scenes matter.