PC, a poem by David Garyan
“PC” first appeared in Volume 7 of The American Journal of Poetry (July 1st, 2019). The poem was subsequently published in (DISSINFORMATION) by Main Street Rag.
Please click here read the story behind the initiative to republish all my work lost with the disappearance of The American Journal of Poetry.
PC
Those who remember too much history are doomed not to make the same mistake twice. —Ozka Wild
This is the jolt generation. The surge in a crowd without reason, powered by mental shock— videos of riots, planes bombing buildings played over and over again. We must tolerate more. We must find a cure for empathy. The suspect jolted when he saw the police; witnesses were shocked when they saw him gunned down. “Officer, I’m unarmed,” were his last recorded words; they’re about to go viral. Quickly, 120 volts. Social media shock therapy to cure the insanity. We need an outlet for our anger. We must find a cure for reason. Hashtag the polarity; it’s us and them— us against them. Yes or no? Do or die! Do or die? Right or wrong? Black or white? We must cure the gray matter in our brain. Practice improves reaction time due to changes in white matter. White. White. White. Practice reacting; do it now; do it fast. We must find a cure for patience. Like. Post. Share. Tweet. The sudden shock of the terrorist attacks has jolted us into action. Jolt with unity. Put French flags all over profile photos. Raise the shock factor until it stuns us. Tears—vestigial fluids of the new electric age. Don’t cry—your eyes have evolved. You can’t help a person bleeding on the screen. You don’t have the empathy for 1,000,000 headlines. What you see is real and not real. Put your hands in the air. Put your hands behind your back. If you’re innocent, pick up the phone and shoot— images of dead bodies, videos of planes hitting buildings. “Officer, I’m unarmed.” Numerous witnesses reported that the suspect jolted right when he saw the police. This is the jolt generation; we need an outlet for our anger.
*
Bag and tag the bodies; send them to the news. Leave followers at their graves. Send followers to their families. We’ll do nothing about guns. The Constitution has over 325,000,000 followers, and it follows no one. The 2nd Amendment has gone viral. We must carry guns because we can carry guns. We must load our guns because we’re free to carry them. According to Founding Father, Anton Chekhov, we must remove all that has no relevance to the Constitution. If the 2nd Amendment says people have a right to bear arms, then the arms must go off; if they’re not going to be fired, they shouldn’t be in the 2nd Amendment. According to Smith and Wesson’s razor, the simplest solution to a problem is a gun. We’re the jolt generation; we get things done the easy way. We repealed the 18th Amendment because we needed to sell booze. We can’t repeal the 2nd Amendment because we need to sell guns. The Constitution isn’t worth the money it’s printed on. Mr. President, unfollow this Constitution. We want to like something new.
*
This is the jolt generation. We’re the new electric newspaper. We’re in constant shock. We don’t think—therefore, we’re not. Not my president; not my country; not my body; not my child; not my problem; not my concern. Make way for the jolt generation; we need an outlet for our anger.
*
What’s on your mind, David? Did you forget the password to your brain? Someone is talking about you. Someone is saying good things. Someone is saying bad things. Someone you know may know you. Someone you don’t know knows what you did. Someone you know has seen you. Someone you don’t know recorded you. Aren’t you curious who did it? You exist in places you don’t know about. Don’t you want to know where? You’re someone’s friend. You only have 100 friends. Isn’t it time for new friends? You know someone who doesn’t know you. Someone you don’t know knows you. Someone is checking you out and you don’t know it. It’s time to check your account. You’re checking someone out and they don’t know it. It’s time to let them know. Open your account; do it now. Hurry up before you miss something. The cure for curiosity would drive us out of business. Where are you now? You can be in 10,000 places at the same time. You’ve been seen, read, liked, tagged, shared, friended, unfriended, googled, ogled, and spied on. You’ve been undressed in 10,000 places at the same time. You must react quickly. You must make way for the jolt generation. You must tell people what’s going on, or you’ll surely go insane. You must connect right now. You need 120 volts. You need social media shock therapy. You need an outlet for your anger.
*
We want to recognize faces. We want to know where everyone is. We want to know where everyone is but we don’t want everyone to know that we know where they are. The bank robber was described as a black male in his thirties who forgot to turn off his phone, or, at least, disable location services. Everyone jolted when the suspect entered the bank. The suspect jolted at the sight of police. We need everyone to see this quickly. We need everyone to react before they know what happened. Everyone must jolt at the same time. #Jolt. Breaking News: “The suspect has gotten away without stealing anything, but the suspect is black.” The suspect is dangerous because he’s black. Black. Black. Black. KTLA wants every citizen to make videos of the chase— including black people, and send them to us with the hashtag, “#YourChase,” courtesy of Chase Bank, “Chase What Matters.” Cut to commercial. “Coors. Whatever your mountain, climb on.” Back to KTLA. We have reports that the black suspect is hiding in the Santa Monica Mountains. We want to remind viewers not to approach the suspect and instead shoot him from a distance. Now is the time to buy a new smartphone with the 25,000 megapixel camera. We need every picture—every picture counts, but no selfies with the suspect in the background. Send your pictures with the hashtag, #ClimbOn.” Use filters, if possible, to make the suspect appear darker than he is. We’ll post them on the Coors page. Get a free beer (Coors Light only) if the police uses your post to catch the suspect. Make way for the electric police. Make way for the jolt generation; we need an outlet for our anger. Jolt with fear if the suspect approaches you. Don’t lie down and play dead; this isn’t a black bear. If you’re still alive, remember to capture the moment— you may decide to relive the near-death experience later. Share with your loved ones. LAPD will tag the bastard soon.
*
Amanda, we haven’t seen you in a while. Do you want us to know where you are? Do you want us to recommend good restaurants? Do you like Italian food? There are 5 Italian restaurants in the neighborhood. Are you Italian? Have you ever been Italian? Our data tells us you must like ravioli. We know where you’ve been. We know what you like. We know you didn’t like the Asian place in Hollywood. We know you’re not a fan of fortune cookies, but you must enable cookies. We know what you’ll do before you do it. Add a bio. Tell us where you live. Find friends you don’t have. Go on vacation just to spice up your profile. Go on vacation to spice up your profile and make people jealous. Make yourself jealous. Go to an Italian restaurant in Italy. Take a picture of the exterior. Walk inside. Take a picture of the interior. Sit down. Take a picture of the table. Call the waiter. Take a selfie with the waiter. Get the menu. Take a picture of the menu. Call the waiter. Point to the ravioli. Take a picture of yourself pointing at the ravioli. Wait for the ravioli—this is terror; there are no more pictures to take. The ravioli arrives. You’re hungry for people’s jealousy. Take a picture of the food and post it immediately. You must react now. You must think what other people will think. Your body is jolting with hunger. You must not think what other people will think. You shall not pick up the fork until you get 100 likes. No, you shall never pick up the fork. You shall always be afraid of what other people think. You’ve learned the art of discipline. You’ve learned to be like everyone else. You’re the master of Zen Instagram. You must find a cure for inner peace. You shall not eat a thing lest you get too fat for other people’s jealousy. Only skinny people can make others feel bad. No more Italian restaurants, especially in Italy. You must think what other people will think. Carbs are good for social media, but not for your body. Call the waiter. Tell them there’s hair in the food— you won’t be eating here again. Congratulations. You’ve made free memories and lost weight in the process. You must not think what other people will think. Your friends are utterly shocked— you can eat ravioli without getting fat. Make way for the jolt generation; we need an outlet for our anger.
*
We need more— more check-ins, more stories, more action, more events, more excuses not do what we should do. We’re the new electric activism. We’re louder and more trivial than ever. We get things done the easy way. The codes for nuclear reaction lie at our fingertips. The meltdown is a mouse click away. We prefer to drop hashtags all over Syria— we would’ve done the same in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Grassroots movements are so floppy disk we don’t know where to put them. We have abolished the CD players of Sony and Yamaha— 2D printers are the next to go. Our outrage is environmentally friendly; we reduce, reuse, recycle, repost, and retweet. We let no hate go to waste. We’re close to finding a cure for apologies. We hold on to every single love. Not everyone deserves our love. We forget nothing. Our goal is to cure the world’s amnesia with endless hashtags. We won’t forget you even if you forget us. We’ll never leave you alone, even if you want us to. We’ll always be there for you. We must prevent people from getting amnesia so we don’t have to cure it. We’re the new electric activism; we prefer to do things the easy way.
*
Make way for the jolt generation; we need an outlet for our anger. We don’t need to cure inner peace if millions of people can see it and feel jealous. The private life is dead. The private life is dead. The private life is dead.
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