They were all, flat roofs.
Winding labyrinths of mouse traps,
breeding off copies of government certified fulfillment,
like fax machines spit out wasted trees.
Dead end businesses with little names;
stuck in the back of warehouses, with offices too small to afford real secretaries.
They were feeding off of skyscrapers,
who had a monopoly on the idealistic, reformed, definition of “prosperity.”
And those skyscrapers plastered their processed philosophy on billboards,
littering the highways across country.
Propaganda? Advertisement that turned into invisible, stage four cancer for mankind.
Dominating, with dead, industrial steel, and the luring false motive of unity.
I live there.
When I was an adolescent, in a four by four cabinet,
Tucked away from the capitalist’s eye by my mother,
Who nursed me with at the breast of promise.
Promise, which died at the old age of childhood.
By air too thick with copy and pasted opinions, viewed on billboards around country.
Now, having been freed from the creative intuitiveness of childhood,
and branded by the money man, I make my way to a skyscraper.
To submit to the sadism of a the bleach white four by four cubical,
And refine my memory of the world’s labyrinth;
while trying to deal with my generation’s anxiety.
They filled out a plastic slate with my thumbprint
and signed me up for the backwards circuses, made for submissive, desperate men.