Work In Progress.

My name is Ben Lingemann and these are strange times-
My Introversion is Innocuous, or so I keep telling myself.
Solid soil means more to me.
Hard granite rock
cracked blue shale
hot-weather hail
shady characters.
I heard a recession was coming to town.
I'm watchful and stolid,
waiting,
ever vigilant,
ever consecrating
any of my original thoughts.

Uncovered I am Frankenstein,
a menagerie of the mind
gathered in observation and of induction.
My introversion is innocuous.
Our specious reality is slipping, for-
there are signs of a diseased economy,
answered with displeased autonomy.
Worry about policies enabling oppression
Worry about a populace in the midst of childhood regression
Worry about the solidarity of profession
My introversion is innocuous.

I saw my generation bloom culture,
fermentation of an embedded caste
clutching tightly to customs past,
above all when a recession is coming to town.
Take the right to excise on what is owed,
author your feelings precisely
learn stern-
pecuniary methods
and guard your possessions with extreme prejudice
for we are becoming a people of continuous exodus,
flocking to wherever a monetary seed sprouts.
Delusional distrust in dire need of work ethic
coupled with the apotheosis of currency clouts.
These are bootstrap operations
filled with rampant jaw undulations
of product grown not made,
the hubris in trade,
of bad habits inlaid,
of being ever afraid.
My introversion is innocuous.

Haunted in life by callous indiscretions
and my odd introspections,
juvenile feelings fade
with each sub-epoch moment
as the characters of life parade.
It has caused me to believe I will die mundanely.
Now- here I stand, wet, in a river of mud
listening to an irregular wall of Babel,
hearing ethereal insults hurled at me from my silenced insecurities
twisted out of past memories,
this is hard labor,
this is America.

Author's Note

This was written by Ben Lingemann.
Please do not plagiarize, All Rights Reserved.