Friday, January 23, 2009

When the Operative Word becomes Deus Ex Machina

A transient world of transitory-

beings exist, where its inhabitants live

and live to never die

(to rest in a dream-like state forever)

The land where angels swoop in to tell you:

the right numbers to win the grand lottery—which splits-

even with all the world’s inhabitants,

a world where everyone’s a sure winner and consequently the sore

loser as equality rears its jealous head

(and everyday is judgment day)

Where every man lives out a perfect life

only to find his wife, mistress and their lovers in cahoots

with fate. Man withers and wakes up inside

his mother’s womb, where life was a dream (and little else).

(each man does the same. Crawls back into his mother,

who crawls into hers, and hers, and hers, and what

is left is a world pregnant with promise—

and little else)

Where each and every whim is made real but subdued, and

sci-fi fans are abducted by aliens, slaughtered

but never die. And wake up disillusioned to become skeptics

of life and the preternatural.

The land where man and woman are equals

(he despising her rigidity; she resenting his missing spine)

both sexless and without passion, loveless and

thinking the other bland.

And nobody wants, and none left wanting.

And fresh milk is curdled.

And deus ex machina is worshipped and secretly

spited.

Reality is chaos. Happiness a popular branch of anarchy.