Wednesday, February 5, 2020

Postmodern Imagination

What a totally unimaginative age this is!
Crushed by matter, we think that's all there is.
Doggy-paddling in the cesspools of cynicism, we hold up as heroes
those who shriek that God is dead, that spirit is fiction,
that consciousness doesn't exist.
We give them massive platforms and mountainous soapboxes,
and we silence those who protest, who speak out against such poison.
Often we just starve them or jail them or put lead in their heads.

Life is money and promotions.
It's stabbing others in the back and gossiping around the water cooler.
It's toilet paper commercials featuring cutesy bears,
and sports cars mid-life-crisis suburbans can't afford,
flashes of metallic red and growls of
oversized engines tearing up absurd racetracks.
It's keeping up with the Joneses and back-to-school sales;
it's Botox and antidepressants and Viagra.
It's diet plans and shopping on the weekends,
sports on TV and posting vacation photos on Facebook.

And so we hurdle mindlessly to our doom.

We consider "imagination" all of those things;
we think we're so great because we have Bitcoin
and SpaceX and electric cars and "AI"--whatever that means.
We consider ourselves "imaginative" because we have rejected
the spirit, have rejected the soul, have rejected consciousness,
have rejected morality, have rejected prudence, have rejected virtue,
have rejected the commonweal, have rejected stewardship,
have rejected true community, have rejected common sense,
have rejected empathy, have rejected courage, have rejected decency.

God doesn't exist, after all. Ayn Rand and Karl Marx and Carl Sagan were right.
As for the God of the fundies--well, that one's merely
a ghost-servant clad in moldering robes, one who hates and hates and hates,
who (in truth) celebrates the crushing weight of matter,
the cesspools of cynicism,
the meaninglessness of suburbia,
and who, utterly bereft of imagination,
refuses to exist beyond the words of his own book.

Mindlessly to our doom we hurdle.

Deservedly so.