It pains me t’ say what remains of the day
is a false front of backlogged memory
bits from days past — woven mind macramé.
Deja vu — but feels real, sensorily.
Send fire to the float tank to make ’em dance.
Puppets by wire who think themselves masters.
Better to feel the slump of one’s idle stance
than the perfect posture of bad actors.
Calling all those who know life is scripted:
“Viva la revolution!” to the gifted.