There used to be a richness to things.
Those round orange balls
lining the power cables once you hit Bullitt County, I remember,
used to seem so mysterious, so detailed
and left me full of wonderment.
I could stare at them and stare, always disappointed
when we were finally past. I barely notice them now,
except to remember
how they fascinated me a child.
Most things are like that now — flat and
omnipresent. Is it age?
Will each year simply bring it’s new share of
diminishing returns? I’m told that it’s just that
my brain makes less of certain chemicals
due to the chronic stress and trauma of adulthood
under late capitalism;
oh g—d, even the reason for the
fading of all magic
is completely banal!
I wait for catastrophe
(and it is coming, have no doubt).
Perhaps there will be some magic,
whatever kind, to find
in all of that.