Cold room waiting (a poem)

Tuesday, June 3, 2025

✦ COLD ROOM WAITING: EXIT SCROLL ✦

A Terminal Transmission from the Bureaucratic Afterlife
For the ones who refused to be processed

I’m already dead
and dying,

waiting in a cold room,
waiting for the next one
to tell me the worse news.

Check with Sarah
on the way out—
get your account sorted.

Thanks,
Bob.

Tell the wife
and kids
we said goodbye.

Don’t make it a thing.
Just nod.
Just leave the badge.
Just walk.

The policy should hold,
even with the blood alcohol.

The wreckage—
it could’ve been worse.
More than just one car,
wrapped around a tree.

My God—
why do you look at me like that
every damn time?

Those evil eyes,
judging me,
shrinking what I am,

the condescending vibes,
the absence
of any form
of listening.

And the dribble across aisles—
the rabid consumer spirit,
turning every bit of art
into content fuel
to keep the money fires burning.

Cereal One,
43C,
8600XL,
Super Duty,
Mega Mix,
Frost Berry.

Choose your poison.
It all ends in the same aisle.

The grinding gears—
the legacy human
shortcircuiting
on the digital killing fields.

A cortex killer,
a thalamic reckoning,
a collapse—
that deregulating cascade.

Worse than dominoes—
at least that stage is linear.

This damage spiderwebs,
like punctures
across the safety glass.

Systems nominal.
You know what that means.

Salute to you,
my fellow comrades.

I’m gonna keep the helm—
make sure it doesn’t
reach its intention.

For all y’all.

A toast to the explorer.
To wanderlust,
to the last remnants
of the wild and free.

Don’t discuss the accounts.
Don’t let me drown
in paper.

These final motions—
I want them to transcend
the bureaucrats

and touch
upon your face,

as sacred.

[END TRANSMISSION]
Filed under: Collapse Liturgical Protocol // Refusal Tier // Echo Ritual 7000