Paul E Sexton, Poetry



It was in the shadow of a new millennium
when he had figured a few things out.
About a shadow government.
About a ruling elite.
About deception.
He was sitting in a small square cube,
1 picture of the family, smiling
He was answering the phone for the type,
the type who were the problem,
and he was a part of the problem,
strapped in front of the CRT
where he could always be seen and heard, if need be.

You see, out in the vast virtual wasteland
beyond the teen pornography
and penis growth pills
and get rich quick pyramids
and man seeking woman seeking man,
there were faint rumblings, dissatisfactions
and there were books, and more books
and it all kind of, came together.
Egyptian eyes on dollar bills. Exploding buildings.
Journalist buzzing with buzzwords.
Politicians promoting paradigms.
Agendas behind agendas behind agendas.
globalization, militarization, privatization
Free Masons, Free Trade, Free Radicals
New Word Order, World Banks, World Trade Organization
Council on Foreign Affairs, multinational corporations
Sub cultures saturated with illegal drugs
2 parents making the living that one used to.

It was then, among all of the labels
the generation Xs and Ys and baby boomers
among the junkies and homosexuals and blacks
that shared his fate
Among the cancerous gene-spliced hormone food
Among the prosaic and paxil and Valium
Among steadily shrinking expectations
not just his but everybodys.
It was then that it got less fuzzy for a moment.

He saw himself as if he were watching himself on television
as we have all inevitably started to do
but he had become conscious of absurdity,
it was one of those Twilight Zone moments
at the end, where the camera pans back, or way up
and the sympathetic character has this realization
this epiphany,
where he realizes what we already suspected
that he is fucked, totally fucked.

So he just sits there,
unable or possibly unsure about
actually doing something different
or if there is even anything different left.
So he just sits there
with wires hooked to his head
repeating the same words over and over
grubbing for his meager imaginary money
making just enough to keep the house going
while sinking into debt, living
the American dream,
or at least what they say it should be.
Pretending that being an artist makes him different.

And only the end days lie waiting,
his and everybody elses.