Oct 262011
Authors: Rodger Katz

It’s important to first note that I have not given up on us…. this is merely a “growl,” the sound a lion might make when there isn’t enough food and the sun’s being abrasive. I feel we all need to make animal sounds every now and again regardless of the circumstance. This is a poem I have been working on for a while. It sort of plays off of Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl.”


Please excuse this electrocuted generation…
they’ve gone burning in this technical void – bewildered
children who have yet to surrender the fight, who would rather
channel through wires and through screens- who’s
nightly musings are perishable by their very nature
fruitless but forgive them for their
meek, one dimensional trot through the
dust and foothills of our era is still taking place on the
historic soil that has given birth to those
eager minds

And as I roam the commons of disarray, agitated by the
droning howl of robotic distraction, followed only by the
sweeping rays of a satellite’s affirmation,
I can’t help but lay myself right down there
on the concrete in a quiet, sleep-like protest against
the faces of my generation whom I’m supposed to be
consumed with (?)

And the symbols of eclectic commercial enterprise
colored neon and worn like sunglasses come
burning through the sidewalks and
bleeding down the gutters in a way that
the very water we drink evokes the dogma of our time
we are seekers, who wish to be glorified in the private
facebook vacuums of our indolent, highly celebrified lives

“Look at me” and “Look at me” and did you
look at her but oh be sure to make time for me
and we showcase ourselves and we
arrange ourselves as we arrange our yards
speaking through stationary garden gnomes
homemade birdfeeders left to
define the very character of our constantly blending lives
But we want them to relate, and I can’t help but become
infuriated by the pulse of this all that
rings in a way I can’t easily ignore…

No matter how I arrange myself,
clean cut, meat free, shaken down organic young heart
earth loving bareback of the free-lance countryside
No matter how I arrange myself,
Head down, bottoms up, warped scathed and
beaten like the bloody prince of pestilence
No, no matter how I arrange myself
The vicious beast will come chomping down once again
with our without my feeble permission
No matter how I arrange myself
the serene candle of my own fragile isolation will always be
subject to the formulative breeze,
that which fuels itself on the
propensity of our desire to become noticed
homogenized, even separated,
for now that this global monster has become so large
your statement is either speaking in congruence with or
in adherence to – I can’t see it any other way and I’m not
void of this myself..

The once weeping children are being drowned in the
forever shiny distractions and we are leaving them tied to this state
so we can go mending to the
fast track pace of our own iPhone whose agenda is
stronger than the way we go prodding through it.
And these children will have no choice but to go
sputtering through the realm of increasing attention deficit
who will not scorn the very web of their mental anxiety
but will continue in their vulnerable states to be
hooked up to the very machines that cast their minds aside

Like the drag of the cigarette
Like the robin who sought after the worm but found
nothing but the stained dirt and the
drought of rocks, not the worm but
the illusion of the worm,
the dugout trails that lead to the
graveyard of the search.


 Posted by at 4:36 pm

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