An Ode to the American Meta-Narrative
I was born fitted to a flannel suit,
A white button-up shirt with a collar—
Gray coat and black tie. Diffuse and dilute,
I disappear in suburban culture.
I have a synchronized watch on my wrist.
My hand clings tightly to a flat brief case
Filled with forms and documentation.
My whole body is clenched firm as a fist,
Locked into my usual standing space
While I wait in the tunneled train station.
I make my living on salaried pay,
Repeating the same, standardized work-week.
I settle to function mindless today—
Mechanic'lly programmed, anti-unique.
In my managerial position,
I'm empowered to think critically
Upon my pecuniary options.
I'm focused of finances, decisions
Based on reports made bi-annually:
The business of affirmative action.
Caged in a chromium jungle, I live
Safe and secure, far from some wilderness.
My natural inclination might give
Me intuition to seek happiness.
Under the guise of heart-felt sincerity,
Suggesting that I'll keep comfortable
Conforming myself to the nine to five.
Transformed, a beast of practicality,
I've become savagely reasonable,
Tamed to have some hope that I may survive.
I've built myself a synthetic brick house,
Captured and kept by a white picket fence.
I've built myself a fam'ly with a spouse.
Our estate is the perfect residence.
Ev'ry night, I relax by the TV
To watch evening programs in my chair
While my eyes rest, or—rather—while I sleep.
The lullaby broadcast news sings to me,
Makes me drowsier the longer I stare,
Until my consciousness I can no longer keep.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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