Monday morning, January 23,2023 at 9: 20 a.m.
"Wish you would step back from that ledge my friend..."
— Third Eye Blind, "Jumper"
Boredom. Hours filled with endless programming,
conditioning. Television? The message? No message.
No waiting. No messenger is coming. Endless NFL
games, flyovers, propaganda, our saviors? Saviors?
Malikes me laugh—these false narratives. Arcades
full of shoppers. Upper-class pairs of white women—
nice Gucci—in intense conversations over coffee
about that next leotard or dress. Scores of real
estate agents, their clients, salespeople—I hear
we're all "bought in", the busyness, social contact—
contract. Que claque jour San toi me fait plus mal
Que toutes les blessures. Contra nature. This is the only
workable, worthwhile narrative: you and I, you and I,
you and I, you and I... I want. Something else.
To get me through. No listening when. No, not.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem