Franklin Dement

Shades of the Day








Maybe there is some significance in the blue pen marks.
Or a secret cipher to be discovered in the endless reams of wasted paper.
Walk with me through worthless business plans.
Stacked, bound with plastic twine,
chemically fresh and new,
along a barren, sterile office hall.
Look there, the Popsicle stick mobiles strung falsely from the ceiling.
Carefully they depict the great triumphs of production.

Start at the Hollerith punch card machine
(hole 8 was for the Jews),
by sundown you should have worked your way to 22
(left ready for those of us who donít agree with you).

Within the muted shades of the day,
the pastel walls, the smoke gray plastic,
all manner of weak mind relaxes.
Contemplates soft existence, takes time to feed gluttonously upon the endless spoils.
Eyes transfixed on radiating screens.
Dissecting the lack of concrete resistance -- eye movements are recorded

There are so many windows open that lead to nowhere.
Dreary outlooks on a miasma of grainy thoughts and muddled realities.
Everything is fractured and severed from the signified.
Meaning is lost in the crowd.
The human face is the newest key to the ageless door of opulent repression.
The same master.
The same slave.
And within each Oracle row and flickering sordid pixel lies the forge for our beloved invisible chains.

Come further with me.
Tour the king .doms that have spent, and spent.
On lavish debauchery and stipends for those who need none.
Their subjects play noxious bitmapped games and amuse soft white fingers with virtual flowers.
In this decadent orgy of nothing,
lying in wait behind the toxic transistors and magnetic distortions of the mind,
we find the hungry cry of a world that does exist.
Or tries to,
as everything is mapped into nothing and split down to infinite moments.

To speak of the infinite at all, when here the vibrating seconds slip away.
Towards an end that has no ending.
Away from a beginning that has never begun.
Thwarts all attempts to regain what little of the sacred soil is left.
Wraps these finite sublime moments of existence in a similacrous coat of commerce.
As trees emerge from the printer, crisp, clean, and filled with new transactable value.
 

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