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Wednesday, March 16, 2016

We Ain’t Got Time for Wibble Wobbles

Imagine the people, the crowds
almost frightened,
already angry, inflammatory
personal injury money
Twenty Five Dollars and a bit of luck

I was there, at the rally. I remember the smell of sweat and sausage, of grubby potato chip fingers and spilled beer. I heard the chanting, the slogans, the jeers, was clocked in the back of the head by someone convinced that I wasn’t cheering loud enough. “Get on the step, boy” he growled at me as he stood over me, “or get the hell out. We ain’t got time for wibble wobbles like you!”

this growing anger
a problem
a question of telephone wars
rapidly changing trouble
bloody murder in
a different world

How did it come to this? No one can remember; no one is willing to remember. No one is willing to admit remembering. Click LIKE and forward, tag a friend. The signal is uninterrupted. Clear and dangerous.

Now moving high-speed
dark fog
lights buzz
smoke and screams

It is time. He is here, uglier than life, now, on the stage. To my left, in my peripheral vision, a pregnant woman is being knocked to the ground, trampled and beaten. But must not notice it. I must face the stage, I must keep focused on the distraction in front of me.

Slow down, slow down
can we stop the prophet’s death

“I toll ya. We ain’t got time for wibble wobbles,” he says before punching me in the kidney. I vomit down my shirt and promise that I will keep silence. I can learn my place, eventually. Who am I, anyway?

lifeless and gray
he talks just like he talks
I hear words from a
low fog

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Jeff Carter's books on Goodreads
Muted Hosannas Muted Hosannas
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ratings: 3 (avg rating 4.33)

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