The rumble of the bus clattering along
a poemate
The rumble of the bus clattering along
the city streets
going from nothing to know not where
like a camera obscura freezing pictures
on the walls.
out there somewhere which were once
a deepened shadow casts a long brigade
for this is the year of the leap,
into the void and far beyond.
My parents are frantic, pedantic, and frenetic,
because they have no say,
in the choosing of the choice now chosen:
Because whether it is Wyoming or New York,
it matters not which turning ade
The choice is already made.
So we must watch englued
to the television and its sound,
and listen for the cascade of
choosing choices chosen
in a vote of misinformation
that becomes an affirmation
and a codification
of the sound roaring from inside the head
Calling “Vote vote vote
even if it is only for the last time.”
Even if it is moronification
edified.