Chromecast Pinetree, or, Ozy(white)man Me-is
The dreams we cast in our bedroom cathedrals.
In focus. My opus.
At last upon my bedroom ceiling,
I saw all my typeCAST works and praise reeling.
Illuminated in a room peeling with a brittle plastic
LED Galactic projecter in my palm.
I’m calm.
Feeling defective, but protected.
These future projections like my own plastic crust,
I’m shielded in my own thumprints and dust.
A realistic CAST of fake stars,
and like my words — I’m charged with directing.
In front of me, unexpected — reality!
I see my unanimously acclaimed memoir ChromeCAST to the TV
By God, or ghosts, or something in-between.
Memoir gasping through gaps in a picturesque, statuesque,
landscape slideshow. Everything I want to be, or see, or know…
It goes!
And if I stare long enough, the slideshow brings tasks:
detinations in the shapes of my wandering asks.
Star-studded slideshow on repeat, until suddenly,
shining through the ChromeCAST filligree of a pinetree, there’s…
ME!
ME!
In all my glory.
ME! YIPPEE!
A shiny white beacon!
That we…
'Ve never seen…
before…
But the slideshow says, “next slide! next slide!
Who the fuck is this guy?”
Next slide… next slide…
Next slide… a gleaming shot of parliament,
red carpet stretched in front of it,
that leads right back to…
ME!
ME!ME!ME!ME!ME!!!!
This guy. Nice guy. White guy!
Got hooks in every leading role,
knows how to be relatable,
a ding-dong diety baby,
the fact’s not debatable.
Me, me, me, my, my, my, my!
Just a curly-headed Canadian white guy,
me, myself and everything,
I’m ME, I’m SELF, I’m EVERYTHING,
I’m I!
But when the light’s out,
I see… there’s…
Nothing on the ceiling in front of me…
Nothing on the floor but laun-du-ree…
Look out the window - THE LAWN!
I’m nothing but duties to be.
Searching for identity in suburban vegetation,
this investigation embedding colonial stains in my knees.
I’m no standout pinetree.
I’m a blade of grass in a mass monoculture,
claiming to be a bastion of difference while lasting off
vast systems of toxically opressive roots.
What do I know about truth?
Without the grass, these invasive native species would’ve thrived.
As if I’m self-aware of the problem, so I’m not the problem right.
As long as I complain about how hard the yard is to maintain,
instead of ripping out every last blade in sight.
Every word I say, is encased in chemical sprays,
how am I gunna tell you everything’s going to be okay?
As if my words are going to have some deep powerful meaning?
To change how we’re being for the better?
Easy for me to say, “you gotta believe!”
I’m a white guy baby, we just gotta be freeeeeee!
Pine tree.
I’m live streamed for all to see.
1080p - first gen smart TV…
Baby!
So what do I even want you to see?
Well it’s not me.
It’s YOU!
This truthfulness. This usefulness.
You don’t need me to tell you to do this.
Even still this poetry outghta be,
a mirror to your mirror.
We’re all here to see the infinite potentiality beaming back and forth between us all.
Time stalls. We fall deeper into watching ourselves watch back.
It’s making us feel that immense powerful feeling,
we’re all just a little part of the same big thing.
That feeling is really the only real thing.
The feeling that gives us a reason to start,
the feeling of wonder: who we are.
Chromecast Pinetree.
We’re back here again.
Only this time remember, the world don’t depend,
on the words that you cast on your bedroom cathedrals,
they mean nothing on planets who’s worlds are conceivals,
of arbitrary arbitration, what’s good and what’s evil.
Right now it’s equal.
I’m safe in my bed.
I’m safe in my head(s).
I want everyone else to be safe there instead.
At the end of the day, I’m not after safe spaces,
at the end of the day, it’s what my take replaces.