I’m driving through New Mexico, let’s say, facing the glories of the setting sun. But just before I get to Santa Fe, there you are, stranger, with your ganglion sized brain and SUV that weighs a ton, paying no mind to sunset’s golden crown, but nitter-nattering ninety-nine to one … so would you kindly put your cell phone down? I’m dining out, which is the perfect way to make the brain cells sing in unison, relaxing with my Merlot and filet, when there you are with that damned cell phone on your ear, discussing how some game’s been won and whether stocks are up or upside-down. You’re sharing all your life with everyone, so would you kindly put your cell phone down? Haven’t you noticed it’s a lovely day? The kind that makes you want to jump and run? But even jogging, you can’t throw away that cell phone, can you? Why, you’ve just begun to give your boss a sales plan that will stun competitors and make your rivals drown. Look out, you fool! You’re running down a nun, so would you kindly put your cell phone down? L’Envoi Friend, I’m no longer saying this for fun. Road rage has made me rampage through the town. I’m out of Prozac, and I have a gun. So would you kindly put your cell phone down?
Source: https://pickmeuppoetry.org/ballade-of-indignation-by-gail-white/
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It took a week for us to stop hearing the voices. Although they had been our constant companions for years by then, a steady stream of chatter, it reached the point where they became unbearable. Each message had become a death to us. Just a little to start with, soft like the twitter of birds, not too intrusive perhaps, but then more insistent by the day, slowly overwhelming, until our own voices, thoughts, were lost to theirs. Eventually, it was us or them. They became mere shouts and remonstrations, pleas and cries, a tidal wave of suffering without pause, of snide retorts and performative assertions – the whole lot began to drown us. Turn off your radios immediately. So we tuned out our frequencies to a dead channel, fourteen billion years of static, that perfect state before the first authoritarians came, a numbness welcome to our battered senses, and, not without some small misgiving, we cut the line and left the voices dead. Thankfully we were left not too affected. They faded like the effects of nepenthe or the Martian atmosphere in Total Recall. Already, we wonder how we ever heard the voices.
By M Anandaraj 3 years ago in Poets
Where's the Glory?
In breaking news, rehabilitated Republican Senator Johnnie Johnson (Pronouns: HE, HIM, HIS) called a press conference from the Men’s room of the New Orleans Louis Armstrong International Airport, Concourse B, across from the Ignatius Reilly’s Lucky Dog stand. The Senator had just returned from a sexual reorientation rehabilitation program in Memphis, TN after being publically disgraced at a Buckee’s Truckstop restroom soliciting sex from an undercover cop three months ago. He is a founding member of the Reformed Christians for Christ, a conservative, pro-family and ex-gay advocacy group. In the spirit of being reborn, Senator Johnson invited reporters to marvel at his plans for a major remodeling of airport bathrooms.
By Cathy Schieffelin5 days ago in Humor
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