how many more exercises in futility are there?

broken dreams, promises, homes, device, people... 
    leftover civilization texting third-rate hand-me-down
pieces of absurd data
unbeknownst to anyone
most of it is loaded
 with high-yield explosives
      that
blow up the
collective consciousness once activated... 

happened before, most likely will happen again...

if I were you

I would:
get with it...
make certain there is an escape route...
take her by the hand and let her know...
wonder what it would be like to be me...
get the fuck back to Dodge and fight like a man...
get the fuck out of Dodge and flee like a wise man...
investigate the way...
wiretap the truth...
eyeball the life...
and run down the dirty bastard who sold you that second-hand dream.

words

words––
but only these come to mind: bastards, pigfuckers, assholes, those that prefer to twist words and blades into your heart of populations centers, civilization crumbles before your dead eyes but the television still pumps electronic garbage into your brain.
a neglected planet
on the verge
of  renaissance
or getting sucked into a black hole.

excerpt: Planet Fever (A Novel Already in Progress)

Mona stood next to the doctor and leaned closer to me. “We know that the Head Covert Manipulator of the Syndicate in this area is a man called Froward Moroni. He acts as an eccentric vagabond who goes around and collects other ‘disenfranchised’ people and enlists them into a roving artistic troupe. Seems harmless on the surface, but covertly the ‘artists’ act as unknowing conduits for the spread of mass-mindwashing. He slips everyone the drugs and we don’t know how, but he implements some sort of transistor-neural frequency via a device––perhaps installed in his own brain––which has laser-like precision properties and can completely act on a personality individually. The person then carries this frequency and spreads it broadband, all on a neuro-telepathical and hyper-subliminal series of bandwidths that piggy-back along all electronic transmissions and frequencies. Very technical and dastardly. These poor bastards don’t realize they are agents for one part of the plan for Subliminal Imperialism.”

      Was she serious? Or had she just memorized that spiel like a good actress?

      Telepathic ventriloquist. That thought scurried from the recesses of my mind to my awareness. Where had I encountered that?

      Mona continued. “You were to act as a spy, gathering intelligence on the man. We apologize, because in order to infiltrate, your mind had to be altered so Moroni couldn’t scan you for your true objectives. He had to be convinced that you were a burned-out drunk writer on the skids. Therefore, you had to be convinced as well, or at least confused about your place in life. That’s why you’re presently confused as to your identity; most of your identity is either cloaked or forged from the pills and neural programming. We're trying to retrieve your actual identity, but it's been tough going.”