The Mangled: a poem

We’re all a little bit idiotic.
After all, knowing nothing is where all of us start.

-Reverend Manny

How mangled are we of the opened palm, we of the wide-eyed infants, back yard Indiana Jones or Jane of Arc—Look Mommy! a butterfly! blubbered by too much food and mangled by convenience artists—by micro-discourse pellets—photons to the ocular bones: Consume Here: Throw Away Food! And you better just shut the fuck up and work harder, longer, faster—on our mangled, reframed, revised his or her story—or you’re fired. Do you understand? I’ve got a long line of over-educated assholes begging for your shitty job, boy. Beginning Chapter One: The Mangled—Once upon an empire, millions of minds were herded by glowing, re-enforcing boxes, exhausted and starving—overworked drones; they were gathered to watch one family, then another, then another, slowly burning… burning…to ashes… to ashes… to hearts of petrified stone…Long numb to their own insanity, the species watched its rolling horror—the horror they owned—in full HD surround sound of crackling colorful smoke—it’s like you can almost smell it, dude. Amazing!—until the mangled managed to half-think, half feel in their acid washed anxious bones—a scoff—we could chant it!—and it goes: you know what… fuck those people… they deserve it…

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Sang Lee is Dead: memoirs in fragments
By Charles Bivona

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