Flood. As we’re back in this gods’-dam and layered raincloud
situation, towns and suburbs usurped by power stations’ or
lumberjacks’ liquid money-making monkeying around with
our fate, witness others’ ignorance swimming in their
ignominious celebrations of survival. Sure we’re second-class
citizens in this republic of big business, but it’s the blindness
that’s made noble, tagged “resilient,” worthy of charity’s tics.
We, final pawns in these universal population-center
experiments, amidst foreign-funded projects programmed to
promote profundity in social relationships, have been like this
since time began. Some of us see in the mirror bleak souls and
black-fortuned witnesses to all the floating bodies on the
riverine shanty cracks of the pie charts. And we know that we
are here today as recipients of these instantly-promised
disaster-relief canned goodness by our forever celebrators of
popularity, our gracious hand-shakers with latent meanness.
Food! Fun time alternating with confusion, tension, the lines
chopper-instigated in this evacuation center march, colliding
with our cheers and the deafened religious chant from a
kneeling pew-less few. Here, forgetting loss of washing
machine witcheries, fridge responsibilities, TV temptations.
And the tours the chopper takes, from northern inundations on
to southern drownings, are fodder for these news media
-hugging camera smirkers, branding relief and the free
advertising as opportunity theirs for the taking. Then the faked
rantings of supposedly masses-friendly figures in a run for the
presidency, saddened by the drowned vote-buying potential
in that rising death count involving ghost-dike beneficiaries.
Flow. Fix nothing herefrom and allow evolutions to normally
glide, where parental patiences may give way to some time
future brimming with evacuee-like raving remonstrances and
rebellion. But, no worries, evolutions take centuries, and so let
us go on and build more cities, more dams, more creek-shanty
marketplaces. And labor forces, the rising red sap for family
trees of societal filial-relationship-like comfort, the steep
pyramid illustrating disposable citizenries, bourgeois middle
classes, and the plutocracy of dismal Christians sunbathing
like hell atop, their flood sliding down in a not-so-sorry flash.
Flaw. A fart in time will give way to a crevice in your voices,
o dambuilders, o undead unwilling victims, o still-moist ruins
on eternally-wet mud under peeking wide-eyed suns, our
sons’ and daughters’ rain-soaked, rooftop beliefs from
disbelief not anymore shivering from the ladder climb and the
evil cold. It’ll come in a “sorry,” read: not-so-sorry, flash.
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