There’s a vague sublimity to the whole endeavor.
We could be anywhere or anyone.
Vacationers on rented time, casting reckless shadows.
Our boredom defines us like generational motto.
The last original movie was made thirty years before.
Everything animated has been updated to live action.
We are waiting for someone to bring our lives to action,
to remind us that friends are not merely extras,
actors for hourly hire eager for the security of work.
Together we explore sideline concepts of beauty
as related to a sad nearby water park.
We fear our own laughter while waiting in line.
This is a dark cloud of discovery:
your hillbilly past, my parental abandonment,
yet we toast our childhood challenges together
and float down what they call “the lazy canal,”
a twisted backwoods Fallopian nightmare
with trance music piped in.
This is as close to nature as we’ll ever get.
Our own natures as well,
though we both like watching the weather.
It’s a seasonal pilgrimage
undertaken like some Ambien incident,
forgotten instantly, except for the heat.
We’re the new artificial wilderness,
substance formed via connected stories
that vanish like meaning after a day.
In the end, there is nothing left
but two contiguous bodies
watching cloud formations
as they turn into messages
that foretell of a prescient world
where everything suddenly matters.