Look at it six ways to Sunday
and the final end result is one and the same:
There is nothing avant garde or subversive
in the substantial, subdermal suburbs.
No cultural, political, gastro-intestinal movements
to shake or bake the foundation of the World.
It’s just cats and dogs and yards and fences.
Dandelions and wading pools and carports.
Rebels move out, they don’t move in.
The sub-urban beat is the staccato rhythm of the sprinkler,
The rat-a-tat-tat of the Girl Guide Cookie seller at the door.
The sub-urban spice of life is no more seductively serious
than soy-diluted wasabi on Tuesday sushi night when father works late
or bottled chunky salsa on chips during an evening of tritely trivial pursuits.
Soul-deep discoveries in the sub-urban zone surface in the
blanc mange form
of tax evasion and infidelity.
Not the stuff of life but
instead the stuffing of death.
Death by boredom.
Death by Weedwacker.
Death by leaf-filled gutters,
by scrubbed-clean propane barbeques,
by a finicky garage door opener.
Death by dog parks
and flower beds
and weekends at the lake.
Death by Hanna Montana lunch boxes,
family outings to Hooters, group sing-alongs of Puff the Magic Dragon,
It’s all Stepford beige.
It’s all criminal boredom.
It’s all so damned bland and yet, it’s perfect…
Perfect for a marijuana grow-op.
That’s it, that’s all.
Ciao for now,