from standard things

t's steeped in American tradition

this is where it starts.

Her name is Olga or Helga

waiting a table

it's 3 in the morning

she's shining a table

she's moving my dishes

(her American dream).

I'm divorcing myself from standard things.

It's a trickle over to the realm of dreams

I don't know what is

real or fake or in-between;

I only know

we're dancing.

The motions of raising these cups to my lips

and forks to my mouth is

becoming a crisis of robotic

and overly-conscious proportions.

I'd sooner just sit still and starve

for posterity

and integrity of a thinning spirit

that used to be called

personality.

There's no sign of people here.

Just

inorganic flashing lights

imitating movement.

But, oh, I love the Christmas tree

that diamond

in the desert-sea of standard personality.

How long can

tradition

comfort me, before i am corroded?

She ha-ha-has and he-he-hes,

likes Mozart but she lies about it

and only admits to what seems to be

usual.

Typical robotic commonalities.

I'm claiming to rebel against these things.

But I'm a liar.

a liar.

a liar.

My existence

in participation

is perpetuating condonation.

I am steeped in standard things.

-clw

11-29-06