Ad Nauseam

Tuesday, March 4, 2025

I’m on my toes, look, Dad—
I’ll make you proud.

Get in front of it,
part of the solution,
add value,
don’t just stand there,
shit-for-brains.

You idiot.
Child echoes—
Grandpa’s gonna be pissed again,
isn’t he, Dad?

It’s a trap.
Luke, I am your father.
No, it can’t be.
I’ll never join you—
Jump for the end,
land in a prayer
for more family.

Ben Solo,
and it goes on,
ad nauseam,
the name, the force,
power always breaks family.

Division.
Polarity.
Family wars.
Forget the stars—
the galaxy is just
collateral damage.

You were my brother.
Don’t do it.
I have the high ground.
I’ll leave Lucas now
so we can find another
narrative to dance to.

Which record gets off the shelf,
dusted and sent
into a revolution?

Play it at speed.
God’s watching,
but he must be deaf.

No—he just can’t hear us.
He has Manifest Destiny at full volume,
his AirPods blasting,
fanboy, the direction is set,
and Providence is vibing at the wheel.

Might as well be asleep,
going nowhere,
or so it seems.

I’m sure it’s just me.

Civil wars,
upended relationships,
shifting loyalty,
out in the open.

Money first.
Villains toast,
the bad men smirk,
and the vulnerable
scurry away into the shadows.

This republic,
dilapidated,
infrastructure broken down,
dated—
needs a good facelift.

More than that.

Strip it to the bones.

Are you not entertained?
How much suffering?
How many stories do we need?

Next.

Next.