We're all O.K

We’re all O.K

Jay M. Jones

C.N.N and Naima keep his mind company.  Staring into the depths of himself, and the soul of the world.
Like a bonfire, like candles lit by torches.

 More men in beige spill onto the sand, which is as plentiful as the green sheets of paper that pay for their instruments of destruction.

 A hazy, nightmarish dystopia of government jobs, and late breaking news updates pushed to us on little screens by the men who refuel and de-fuel the mechanized glass soul that was the dream of our forefathers.

 Boxes filled with wires, and silicone spawned from the rotten womb of what we are taught is industry.  Industry, whose robber barren captains play chess with each other on a grand scale across the landscape of economy, and social order.  

The boxes connect us to each other, so that we may scream in unison with our Kin on the Gaza strip, in Africa, in South America, in Europe.  Our brethren with the slanted eyes, and our dark skinned kinfolk who wear robes and pilgrimage to Mecca.

  The boxes that rest on our desks, and under our desks, and sit there whirring, and spinning, and ticking like a time bomb.  We are waiting to see what’s next to blow up, who is next to blow up, who is next to be crowned queen of teens, who is next to be crowned king of pop, waiting with baited breadth while preparing an offering of currency that is digital.  

Currency that we cannot hold in our hands.  Numbers in a window pane refresh themselves, and auto populate blank fields in alternate space.  Avatars galloping back and forth across a page, crying war, and rape, and incest, and God, and Reason.  And in all of this, and without any cause for alarm, we lay evenly and in alphabetical order along the floor, and laugh, and cry, and make love, and kiss, and murder one another in grizzly fashion.  We are all ok.  We are all right.