Propagandhi

I have this recurring nightmare: flailing pigeon, her broken feet frozen solid to the freezing pavement. I turn away as if I do not see. I have this childhood memory of my old man screaming from the driver’s seat to turn away from an unfolding horror, but he could not undo what I had seen. We never spoke of it again. Two more hapless citizens of the new post-traumatic stress worldwide disorder. A stockholm syndrome fifth estate, desperate to batten down the mounting horrors and shuffle on in a global lotus gait. Content to marinate in the plasma glow of the home entertainment prisons we commune before like dime-store shrines. Are these but votive lives? It’s a strangled, twisted truss that shores-up each of us. So anything to dull the pain of a splintered lotus gait. As for me a filigree of psychic police tape tends to cordon-off off the darker scenes. But the wandering mind stumbles through it and relives them all eventually. Pries open wide your eyes and shines a painful light on the guilt, the fear, the shame. The courage never came from the plasma glow of the home entertainment prisons we cling to like dime-store shrines. Are these but votive lives? Conservative at heart. A conformist from the start. A stockholm syndrome fifth estate. A staggering lotus gait. It’s a strangled, twisted truss that shores-up each of us. So anything to dull the pain of a self-inflicted, crippling lotus gait.