All Hollywood heroes
eventually get stuck up
in the assholes of imagi
nation and dark h
oles of his
tory . . . Meaning
is not not import
ant –
only sales receipts . . .
If that isn't clear
stuff this poem
& gawk
at the silence
ah blank screens
blank minds
blank dreams
waiting
for the next schedu
led performance
to be gin.
Terri let out a long, shuddering sigh, her shoulders dropping as she pushed the poem away.
The fluorescent lights of the cafe hummed overhead, casting a sickly pale glow on the text.
"Lot's ah anger here," she murmured, rubbing her temples as if the jagged line breaks had
given her a physical headache.
Ted slumped further into the vinyl booth, the springs groaning under his weight. He stared
out the window at a movie poster across the street, its colors oversaturated and fake.
"Yeah, I'm tired ah reading 'bout how screwed up our planet is," he muttered in a voice
thick with exhaustion. "Every time I open a book or turn on the news, it seems like another
autopsy of the American Dream. I want to turn my brain off for once."
"Agreed," Kris chimed in, staring blankly into the depths of her black coffee. She watched
her own reflection ripple in the dark liquid. "It makes me want to either medicate or meditate.
Either numb the noise or try to float entirely above it. Anything to stop feeling that I'm
a 'blank mind' waiting for a 'blank dream.'"
Tim, who had been tracing the broken words of the poem with a scarred finger, looked up.
Unlike the others, there was a strange, haunting spark in his eyes—a look of someone who
had found a strange comfort in the wreckage.
"There is a beauty in all monstrosities," Tim said, he said quietly but steadily. The
table went still as he leaned in, his shadow stretching across the table. "This is the
paradox of America. It is a grotesque nightmare clothed in the fabric of a beautiful dream.
It is both terrifying and fascinating."
