Poem: Fantoccini

 

Fantoccini

 

are they flesh

or a plastic mask of  guile?

does a mainspring spindle into a heartfelt blurb

that only appears to beat?

 

when you observe them

in the circus of fluorescence--

that moebius jingle cascade

disgorged by the blue cacophony of the screen--

 

it seems, maybe, the eyes bob a little too astray.

it seems, maybe, the schticks sink too low,

as if a fake raft had slipped off a prop bollard

to suffer devil fins.

 

it is later,

 

past the glamour of the cogs,

in the desert of the strobe,

wandering in a frantic hypnosis,

where can catch them in the lie.

 

it is later,

 

in the yawn of eye apertures,

behind caked facial features,

after ratings have absconded,

 when their own unanswered answers

confront the very same questions

that others once asked them

with scared, small mouths, seeking prophecy.

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Tired of all the mass shooting in this country and the lies of the Republican politicians, defending easy universal access to guns guns guns...