Hard to Believe: a confession of sorts – Kyle Ingleman

Kyle Ingleman

Selections from Quó Vádís: an experiment in vocabulary bending

alright, fine! so, once upon a time
i s’pose i chose to cross a line while
chewing that pro-verbial fat
with this cat that was strapped to the nines;
packed like a gat with a rat-a-tat-tat
typeA socio-emotional format designed
to crack to the back like a smack to the spine;
like a bat to the back of the head came the line
as he said with a lead-like gravity,
“aw, gee! it’s hard to believe brothers
be killin each others in da streets …”
and i freeze! i sorta stumble stutter-step
double-back jacked my mind
cocked this mental fist of mine, prepared to unwind
& flip some psycho-gymnastic tricks
to swing some semantic kung fu kicks
and hit with them socratic wits like,
what did you think was gonna happen?”
well, his lips stopped flappin & the guy quit yappin
as i continued to pursue the entrapment of his suasion
occasioned by the invasion of this sort of retort
“O, you must’ve figured the ghetto to be some sort of
beach-side, ocean-front resort property?
but, it’s a territory!
a thin red (mal)lined, blue-balled, white-knuckled
caged in & constantly terrorized type of territor-reality
that has always had a ground played violently;
i mean, we’re talking about the places
where in an awful lot of cases
home is actually known as the ‘project(s)’ …
i guess i’m guessin, but, yes, i reckon
killing was probably part of the experiment …”
and suddenly his heaven-sent
sensitive sympathetic look
turned sour puss as he took, legitimately
to the signs that suggest this was not going to be
just another one of those opportunities
to speak on all the worldly atrocities
without acknowledging our own culpability, respectively.
I furthered, “naw see, what’s hard to believe is that we
rise like bread from unleavened beds
black-veiled mourning after mourning,
pouring ourselves thru new black-mailed mornings’
possibilities unfolding
& we drone on instead into boring mundane moldings,
fall back into routines like machines,
forget our chemistry, the complexity
in our networks of neurobiology, we just
dismiss this élan vital, and walk steadfastly
(cathexes being Now’s nemeses)
into the open embrace of our enemy’s scorn.
from the moment we’re born, we develop fears of death
& failure — or rather success — & the unknown (yes! of possibility!)
fears so hyper-active they make a.d.h.d. seem
obvious, at least and like our teeth full of fillings
biting aluminum foil
we grind our feelings
across this mortal coil
unflexing into cathexing as our blood & sweat oil
the mechanization of this existence
(for lack of a better word to describe
our acceptance of this persistence
of pursuit of power)
i mean, hour after hour, and
day after day, we mope our miserable way
into their unburning, sky-scraping towers & obey
the whims of their florescent insistence
without even the slightest real resistance
rationalized by some suicietal assistance:
‘i’m not the only one’ we swear up somewhere
& our hearts, if they’re still beating in there,
overflow with desperate & despotic despair
yes. i said despotic. as in, tyrannical.
the psycho-socio-economic, soul-fucking,
spirit-crushing oppression
of depression.
it’s a weapon.
like paranoia, shit’ll destroy ya
and we just take it!
and take it!
and take it!
and take it!
and take it!
and take it!
we fuckin fake it
every goddam day
we turn our privileged little heads away and say
(something charming like)
“gee, dems da brakes” like we’re not in this living thing together
and y’know what?
i get sick of it too! all the bullshit and the games
that everybody seems to feel entitled to play
the shit we get away with day after day
the shit we learn to accept & the way
our Hearts keep breaking day after day
and nothing …
in spite of our voices
somehow nothing is what we say

perhaps its apropos to consider the concept of white noise!

i’m just so tired of living a Life of forgiving
the powers that be for giving to me
the privilege to rationalize anything!
not limited to but at least including
the encrustation of the mechanical
upon the living
driving so many people
sisters and brothers
fathers and mothers
and all of us others
into this twisted
maniacal madness;
lavish with sadness;
this malignant melancholy
because we’re too afraid
to fight these powers that be …
and for what?
to survive?
to be happy?
… free?”

when just then said he
with a lead-like gravity
“yeah, and
it’s hard to believe brothers
be killing each others
in da streets.”

… whoa!
pop! goes the ego.

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One Comment

  1. This writer, while deft in delivery,
    is obtusely grandiloquent!

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