cinematic entrapment: I can’t
help seeing the movie
the last thirty minutes of La La Land
for a devious Cheshire grin,
and I’m trying to reclaim the past
and turn it into a refurbished future.
take me back to ‘97
when I was three years old
before the universe was an at-large abuser;
before paranoia was an everyday acquaintance, and only existed abstractly as a Johnny Greenwood solo.
android hand controlling science-fiction
pop-culture, and even if we polled Orwell and Bradbury and Huxley
I’ll take a rough guess, and predict they’d view our disposition
I took you by the hand, and accidentally broke your heart—a peculiar form of cannibalism;
and you pressed my teeth to the pavement, and turned revenge into an art-form—a necessary kind of animalism.
survival of the fittest, and all that.
but for every grand-scale social pain
there’s an interior ache that mirrors it; and
I’ve swallowed twenty-two years of pride
to ask you to weather both storms with me.
more importantly, I found out I loved you a little too late,
and I like to think that’s a forgivable offense, even after everything we did to each other.
this separation makes me violently queasy, and
I know more than most that reconciliation
ain’t easy—but if you’ll permit a pretentious diatribe:
this third try could be postmodern cyanide, literary and cinematic formaldehyde, and this time I’ll preserve the celluloid even if it kills me.
I don’t believe in happy endings,
but I believe in presenting the intertextual truth of past poems,
and to quote the words of a slightly younger poet:
“…you’re the only piece
that has ever been better
than the illusion.”