Breaking Boredom

by Richard Birch

For the most part,
One may only say that if
The world were to be rooted in demise,
Then so are all other forms of that which make one
Part of another...
One.

But to be wholly and relentlessly void of such a state
Is the opposite of bliss,
Or at least it is to some of us
I expect.

But claims to similar discursivities,
Like voices,
Have many ranges and spaces.
Like the octaves of human sound
That has will and fury
And can carry itself over doubly-posed
Permutations of imperfect sustenance.
For it is with this imperfection
That I-as-writer am foremost comfortable without.

Active social utility addict,
Always with post,
Frequent displayer of pop cultural consumption,
Always searching,
But rarely discovering
That which is sought and mastered.

Boredom is queen for a time,
And lack of identity, or identification are among commonality.
Whereas hopes and manifestations of angst and civility
Converge with hegemony.
Is this what becomes of ample and historical personage
When dreams change, fall, die, and rot?

But no more on that.
That too is by far, done.