Paralyzed by Choice

Fester without motion fixed upon choices.

Choices, about choices, perhaps an ideology;

Among choices.

There is a paradox to limitless choice, this much is infinite.

My elaborate confusion turned into paralyzed gesture, I've since been overwhelmed;

With choices.

Injected after morphine under calming seas sometimes in safe harbors.

Whispers of a promise, of a planning of a last vacation from repetition of everyday labors,

From my choosing.

But what doors shall I close and when shall I do it?

And what shall I open instead? Will I feel guilt or regret?

My choices

Define me

Those not taken, squandered, or ignored then replaced

With a vice of too much or maybe too little, this is how I became too weak to move,

Too bloated to change.

Defined and confined.

Too happy to not care.

(about anything, not a thing)

With too little to lose

I must keep what I have.

At all cost.

Silent, and hidden away

From the choices of some days.

From the reason of others.

Only without choice can come revolt

Come the Change

The smashing of chains

Reborn into the sands of pain you will find solace in something or you will die;

As it should be.

What we had hoped for is the anti dangerous,

Now we have this sterile infinity, this repetitive insanity... and therein lies the danger.

And the coming...

Coming is chaos, the regression of too many copies into something misplaced, inappropriate - too f*****g hideous to bear.

Yet forever regenerating, like cancer.

Renaming old images as the mirrors silently crack further into distortion

Into simulation - into the simulacra - the loss of meaning.

The desert of the real concealed under an illusion of a million minute choices.

Illusions,

Slave to freedoms like life to shelter.

Our cancer of the marrow

Depending on illusion more complex than any liquid, gas, or pill in physical form.

 Over eons spent slave to the sand's of pain and the deep water's of struggle; we finally became the same.

Now that "sameness" among us, the thing we achieved, how we overcame everything -

  is now something we run from.

But don't worry,

I'm never very far, not at all, no not really.

My dog's still s**t in your backyard.

I still spit on your causes, I might even still f**k your wife.

On occasion, more or less, or just maybe

On the god damn mother f****n daily.

My Women in waiting behind a shadow...

Called the failure of a Man.

Author's Note

Reviews

[TL Boehm]

this one hit home. It brought back to me things I usually don't consider anymore. My dad used to say, "life is a b***h, then you die." And that statement from him, after he remarried and became a Witness, and tried to teach me the "truth" as they call it, well I always wondered if at his core - he still felt that life was a b***h and then you die. his death was horrid. 63 years old. Emphysema and asthma. I've written about it but not sure if its still here.
There is a raw reality about this poem - it is an adult write. Pragmatic. Unapologetic. A bit of a warning to the Pollyannas of the world.

[Davidgeo]

Yeah, it does have kind of an adult thing I guess. Pg 13 with a little extra. Kids know whats going on these days.

I'm not sure if my ending sounds sexist. It kinda sounds a little misogynistic to me at the moment. It's really just about sleeping with my neighbors wife and letting my cat s**t in his yard and hate stare at their stupid dogs. (I walk my cat on a body harness if you were wondering how that went down. I couldn't use 'cat' in the poem - too weird. Dog's works better)

[Barbara Walker]

Okay, I am going to be real for a few minutes and tell you that this made me feel utterly sad, that any optimism I May have had(who knows, I certainly forget which way my mind goes) disappeared, took a hike and I fear, never to return and that scares me cuz I need it to lean on at times...but I digress. You slapped me in the face with this and I wasnt ready. Thats all I can say.

[Davidgeo]

Read more of me... what I have for you is far more than simply paralyzing, my dear I promise I am empowering. My meaning here was to show you that the presence of choice can become a way to obscure the more important things... 200 ways to cook an omelet... How many ways have we tried to reduce poverty? Or apply that to any other problem you may see... choice has been perverted into a delay tactic. Or not... it's just a silly little poem Barbara, you really shouldn't take it so seriously. I appreciate your praise though, it fills me trousers every time.

[Barbara Walker]

Oh the irony. I was traveling through a small city I used to live in and it had added so many stores, I mean, a plethora of buildings and I remarked, Do they really have enough customers to sustain all this?! And I said,this is too much...too much choice and it feels so overwhelming, one cant SEE anything! When the student is ready...

[Davidgeo]

I'm still friggin waiting for the teacher to show... I've been studying for friggin decades. Damn it. I need to know how to make a proper friggin light saber gosh dang it to heck Han Solo!!

[Davidgeo]

Or is it Captain Kirk again? Some kind of damn Avenger probably... stupid Captain America... he's totally got herpes.

[Barbara Walker]

It's more serious than that, Bones!

[Davidgeo]

Calm down Barb... I'm sure there was a point to this. Not star trek de evolution banter... Though, Shatner wasn't even in the pilot god damn it! Some other dude... I saw it on Netflix recently... it was, pretty good.

[Barbara Walker]

Oh, I was in love with the other captain, Picard. When he said, number one, engage...oh my! Is it hot in here?

[Barbara Walker]

Oh, I was in love with the other captain, Picard. When he said, number one, engage...oh my! Is it hot in here?

[Elise Anton]

Now I have an advantage here, between you and I, so I can comment. Your 'interpretation' of the overabundance of choice is exquisite, I swear, you took something and built a monument, Shut up. Funny I'm writing some prose on this very thing... I hate you. Just saying, You have the better words.

[Davidgeo]

There is no advantage to be had... we stand toe to toe... not exactly like Russell Crowe but I'll stop talking about genuine Australians like Mel Gibson... perhaps I am here to be hated and for that you can thank me... free of charge. All around. Lets give a hand... to the lady from New Mexico... Slainte my doll.. with an ampersand... above the A.

Flattery will get you everywhere.

(but not with me... and nothing rhymes with orange)

[Tsubaki Kuro]

Great poem here HansJIzzy. Love the ending. Very deep thoughts here. I like it.

[Davidgeo]

Is it? Is it really? I know these three raccoons that constantly steal cat foods from my cats.... they refine me as a person and a writer so much more. You owe me 3 more minutes.

[Tsubaki Kuro]

Really, thinking that how you wrote a simple story with very big words is bad thing. It does refine you as a writer because you can take a simple thing and create a complex poem with big words. No s****y writer can do that.

[Davidgeo]

Oh... ha.. oh, yeah, ever read L Ron Hubbard? Ha... Yeah. He was dogshit... still a better writer than me. We are all of us here s****y writers.

[Davidgeo]

No matter how fancy it looks... true depth is among the most rare commodities on the worded world.

[Davidgeo]

Fancy will never equal depth.... depth may equal fancy if we get lucky though

[Tsubaki Kuro]

True, we all are s****y writers, we aren't professionals who get paid to write. :)

[Davidgeo]

I hear the pay sucks anyway... I pretty much just stick to stray dog wrangling.

It feeds the brood.

[Tsubaki Kuro]

True story.