Little Soldiers

I dislike Stream of Consciousness prompts.

Ever since I was a child learning about them,

"Write a stream of consciousness poem",

Scrawled upon the overhead projector as class began,

Lights turned down low so that we could read better.

"There are no right or wrong answers,"

My teacher lied.

Despite there being no proper answers,

The routine delivery of improper answers ensured I received poor marks.

(Vuitton comes over to discuss the politics of getting older,

Demanding my attention with clawed paws and toothy yowls

Before sprawling out beside me.

Occupied by the feel of my elderly cat's fur beneath my palms,

The thought that we only have so much time left together skips across my mind and I am for a moment lost in time and place without any way to know forwards from backwards.

Vuitton gets up to leave,

Satisfied with my attentions and having successfully broken my concentration)

It is hardly my fault that the thoughts come structured,

Fascist little soldiers marching along in lines and grooves,

Rifles o'er the shoulder as their ears swing low.

I wish that my mind were the same brilliant chaos

Reflected back at my life and love across the Universe divide,

I wish it were so.

Splashes of brilliantly diverse color,

Points of view that I could never imagine encountering,

Oh, to not understand!

Still through it all they march,

1-2, 1-2, 1-2,

My fascist little soldiers march so orderly along

Destroying anything that does not strictly fit the pattern.