Cultural Meanderings. The Luster of Boredom.


When the capitalist monk opened his mouth
After viewing Manhattan;
“Why does God need a temple? When the cosmos remains expelled of narrative, and permanent of dust. Perhaps,”
He held his briefcase towards the sun.
“The solid nature of my briefcase juxtaposed with squirming eyelids that close down like un-microwavable Tupperware-microwaved-blinking air through a closing of perceptions woe.
Is the culmination of the Taste of Death and evolution. Or perhaps-This God-is my briefcase, and when office supplies touch paper, the touch shares the same cultural sentiment as when America beat Russia to the moon. I demand from my God-as a poet-(INFORMAL) my hide-my dreams-and the strength to suppress this existential crisis. I want a logical retelling of air, of space, of the cosmos. For I cannot blink a sigh, like a hiccupping God confusing snowflakes with ash; perfection’s design, and this briefcase,”
The capitalist monk looked at the leather of his briefcase like it was his dead child.
“This briefcase personified my daily routine. Yes, it was a God…was a God..But no more.”

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