A NEW NOTHING

Monday opens its mouth; 

a phantom tunnel into another week, 

lined with spurious, manufactured trifles. 

Unaware they're traveling, 

travelers praise them as invaluable truths. 

Their sanitized monobrain is not even a desert. 

Deserts can bloom when it rains. 

Under strong showers, 

this boneyard will only rot into mud. 

Not the kind that nourishes the land. 

Barren, thoughtless mind dust. 

What would e. e. cummings think 

of our sprawling, ever metastasizing 

"uncircus of noncreatures"?

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A NEW NOTHING [Redux]