Knowing or unknowing,
each pallid day decays
to deadlines, traffic delays,
to listless hours’ thoughts meandering
to no conclusions, to groggy
memories and dreamed delusions.
Blinking or unblinking,
these neon signs bequeath
riches of this lurid dystopolis
where mystics, cynics find salvation
in materialistic peroration.
Loving or unloving,
mothers of modern men
wait for the unweaned to begin:
trepid the lurch toward meaning,
contemplating the various roles,
to happenstance stuck to our soles.