We

Tormentor, desist!

We

We were forged in the fires of happenstance,

cooled in the currents of circumstance:

children of chance are We.

We find clarity in gossip, wring sapience from zines, our passion’s that wonderful worldwide Web, our purpose the latest app.

We sing of uniqueness in lockstep, sleep in electric tombs, shake our collective booty, preen for the perfect snap.

Then, failing at these, We cry foul.

All that gleams or burrs We crave, all that thrums or whirs.

Mystified by genders are We--Swollen to bursting, Waiting outside of restrooms are We...shyly, circumspectly, holding our flow, oh-so Correctly, debating: His or Hers?

And, failing at this, we cry foul.

We champ for the carrot, honk for the herd, deify celebrities, personify our deities, shout out our rot into each and every ear; damn whatever, blame the weather. All together: cry foul.

Thrust into Eden, We slouch on the couch, heroes impaled by that dratted TV. We switch off the news for a snack and a snooze: softened so often that woozy are We. Rotund and weary, snatched from inertia and crammed into bliss; oh, how We vilify this--this...this conscience that palls, that frustrates and galls, that harries and hauls on our sweet reverie...this harpy that gnaws, that purloins and claws, that plagues without pause all the pleasures of We.

New cushions to conquer…We wonder, where are they? Rugrats and feces, grandchildren screaming--jaded and faded are We. Resigned, We recline, catatonic and blind, lost in a black hole of daredevil dreaming. Eyes glazed by cathodes, night after night, We roundly damn pizza, bite after bite. Barely conscious, we wait for our props, but it’s getting so terribly late. Ah, this low, wretched fate: the weight won’t abate...what the hell are We supposed to be, some kind of wallowing bait? Jeez. The s**t never stops.

Mute telly, scratch Rover, rub belly, roll over, cry foul.

Yes:

We think that our drives are thoughts, dream that our lives are real. We pray to the cosmos that one leap of faith might beat back the wraith and suddenly, sunnily heal--that one little something might somehow reveal the spiel that will make this bully desist. We pace while We weep. We throw in the towel. We howl from the bowel lest this pressure persist. We wrack our poor brain, We struggle and strain, We scream out our pain to that static and stone-deaf abyss. Moved to cease and abort, We sign our farewells, and kneel with a will to gingerly court that vaunted and velvety kiss--that sweet resolution of razor to wrist.

Then, flailing and wailing

and failing, even this,

We cry foul.