A Bit of Sunshine on the Inland Empire

To wake from Lychian dreams that bring my hands
to pull dead strands of cells from my scalp with
enlightened confusion that leaves me feeling
chock-full of loss for remark as to why
people sing praise from Across the Universe
to fill the ever limitless pockets of
studio hacks to pack those darkened viewing
rooms with mindless fodder supposedly new.
Certainly Lennon, McCartney, Ringo,
and Harrison would not be grateful for this
aborted-cocktail that amateur critics
have deemed surprisingly creative. I now
propose that we not accompany Bono
on his trip to somewhere where we are all
together, but instead venture into the
grey indefinite and hypostulate
with each other after having observed texts far
convoluted and problematic than
a musical where unrelated songs are used
to carry a story that’s been told a whole host
of times in far more intriguing formats.
There’s horrifying beauty to in
sharing the experience of schizophrenia.
At loss for who I am or where you are
in context of time and space with knowing
we’re nothing more than stardust millions
of billions years old. Our names may be what
are known as Christian, but our bodies made
of science. Many millenniums worth of
molecules from the furthest corners in
our’s and other’s universes. Hail to those that
cause audiences to deficate in their seats.