It was a dark and stormy morning
as she got into her car
and became contemplative on the drive
She wanted to be Clarisse to his Montag
open him up wide like the skies
let it pour down through him
as the billboards stretch longer, wider
as she goes on by
Fun machines without rubber bumpers
which begs the question
What are you escaping from?
What’s out there that haunts you so?
Why does it a take a philosopher to ask
what is this life?
what is this consciousness?
what is this social shit that locks us in place
and makes us look to celebrities as our heroes
as if their lives were worth obtaining
when we used to look at the characters within the pages
for our sources of inspiration?