To the Holy footnote; this is my genesis.
          This is my genius. Origin of language is an orange peel.
With the birth of the everlasting sun; I am your son.
          I am your fire. I shall burn with billions of stars;
Then blow. Exploding supernova of fragmented soul.
          Then I become you and we transcend; merge as one,
eternally, forever like a number… zero
          or infinity, based purely on relative perspective.
This is the enduring ego, the narcissist, the Me.
          This is the impediment of American culture.
This is twenty first century psychobabble.
          This is human evolution; transforming…
This is intuition; Godspeed!
          Fruition of internal monologue; the dialogue must start somewhere.
Acknowledgment of fear, we shall not tremble nor murmur.
          ‘Cause the mighty wind will blow to sea;
O’ it shall blow for me; intrepidity.
          Thus spoke the digital generation,
Copyright can’t straight jacket contemporary pirates.

Somewhere between satellites and cells; I is heard.
          Beyond that of preceding decades; Modern Man
has made his mark. Who groans,
          and sighs, and snarls, and cries;
Who baffles in perplexity when infringed.
          Yet all jargon is foreign to I (Xenophobics need not apply)
A language without fair democracy shall not survive.
          Darwin dances in his grave.
This is pure noise.
          This is static.
This is mantra:
          Dare not to believe in self;
thyself will become an allegory,
          a fictitious rhyme,
a lullaby or a twinkle of oblivion.

          The truth is there are no truths.
The truth is like a network of Wikipedia edits.
          And there are no truths better than fiction.
Perhaps we all become the misfortunes of our thoughts;
          the dilemmas of trying to be something we’re not.
The privileges of being someone we want.
          Yet desire of the deluded mind has the power
To create at will,
          To destroy at will.
To subjugate a demented world.
          Or to sleep fallow in its pig hole.
This is modern man’s great burden.
          It is the overbearing sense of self worth.
It is the pinnacle of the giant ego.
          It is what sinks ships, crumbles towers, and sends the youth to war.
Too much weight will hinder the mortal flower.
          This is what fosters civilizations to rise and fall;
Walls go tumbling like a maladroit donkey.
          How do we not honor an ounce of empathy?
We, the people, deserted decency and replaced it with occupancy.
          We, the people, have become our possessions.
There’s nothing worse than becoming things; Objects shall not be the subject.
          Thus spoke from learn’d experience.
It is the most terrifying of occurrences.
          O’ I shall wait for the coming day.
In time to listen to the Om of the written verse (whispering universe).
          A vision between two camera lenses; a reel for the third eye.
                    All possibilities expanding balloon sized and evenly spread.

We, the seekers of information, have drawn poor conclusions.
          The only fact about existence is knowing we will one day be forgotten.
To know we exist eternally is preposterous,
          Poppycock to some degree of standards.
Yet we are alive; breathing and pulsating, vibrating and shimmering
          at every hour of every day of our lives.
And to this, I cordially invite,
          A common cry to the almighty breeders of plight:
We are not your grotesque preoccupation.
          we are not your self imagined indignation.
We shall be the provokers of millenniums to come.
          We are the study guides to your damn nation!

Strife has brewed a cynic and it’s far too late to panic.
          The day wanes on with the clicking of a clock.
Generations askew as my lineage recedes in the rear view.
          A panoply of puffy white clouds in the sky grown dim.
Why? O’ Why does the poet spear drama?
          And Why? O’ Why do bleak nights spur moments;
Of tragedy – where the world seems dark and lonesome?
          With the screeching of animals in the night.
Scared and waiting for their sudden bane.
          It’s the inevitability of each organism; Death is an orgasm.
And then birth- familiar to my linguistic origin. The orange peel.
          I am your sun. I am your fire. I am your rage.
Who sleeps in poverty with a stupefied droll of keen dreams.
          All amounting to a mountain till
A morning dew glosses the window pane. The sun is up and curious.
          Have I witnessed the age of information, bamboozled,
over stimulated, and in need of catharsis?
And let me tell you this,
          to say we are not impending on the fringe of our existence
is to deny the earth’s burps and hiccups
          and denial is a block in a city of avenues.

                                                                 Shall we proceed?

Thomas DeJosia is the author of Reel Life.