I am so sad about Robin Williams.
All the talking heads are yak, yak, yakin’ like hens in a henhouse
and I think of the song
“everyone’s talkin’ at me,
I can’t hear a word they’re saying.”
We know it hurts.
Our filled wet eyes pouring over
like waterfalls in paradise
down and down
because there is no more
GOOD MORNING VIETNAM!
still cluck, cluck, clucking
24-7 on flashy stations-ladies in the
little black dresses
perfect legs, sleek and tan.
The men with smoothed heads
bulging arms, t-shirts with honed mounded pectorals shined to perfection
not showing a wrinkle in their shirts,
never a blemish
or a sigh.
Desperate without love because the dopamine doesn’t flow right
and they called you fat
as a child
and who knows what other dark secret never made it
into the healing light of transmutation.
On to the next story
without a break or a pause,
it’s not a cure for cancer
not a happy time,
obsession with appearance…
bigger steroid abs, torsos of steel, flawless skin tone, baby bumps, tight tummies, hot mamas, baby daddies, sugar baby boy-girl-girl-boy
a label to be a brand
a new appendage to hold in your arms like a trophy
until the next break up,
or sensational hook-up
on public display,
toned and tightened
butts and thighs,
muscles and cheeks
it goes on for weeks,
cashing in on the beat
always, always focusing on the body.
Bikini bodies on the beach stalking sweat
and glances for
but something sparkles in the sand
just below your awareness
you are not enough.
Fingers, arms, legs, genitalia
selfies and phones,
everyone talks the same
using that creaky dry throat thing,
that style that sounds like
they need a drink of water
to soften the palate of conformity.
Networks of shame
empty of innocence continue with reeling in
and going viral.
It’s the definition of obscenity: narcissism bought and sold
in any venue. The body and the girl, barely legal
breaking bad, some stupid drug glorified on television-even if it makes people dump their kids
into alleyways at night
and jam guns into baggy pants in a dizzying rage
and the people watch programs
about orange and black, capitalizing on the woes of jail,
the lock and key of insanity,
the beer and the babe, the car and the broad,
the truck and the dude,
sound bytes selling sex
sizzling sting of decay
with a backdrop down into weapons sales
where refugees wail on a mountaintop
fighting to survive
of the devil who is
devoid of integrity.
of the image-mongers
and the body sellers,
the makers of ratings
used to sell cars, bodies, and products,
selling likes and attention
me first-me, me, me
all the way
for temporary pleasure.
It won’t last.
Thank God it’s only a bad dream.
Copyright © 2014 by Susan E Rowland