"Broadcasting from the End of the World" & “(It's All) Too Much, But Not Enough" by Andrew Buckner

Broadcasting from the End of the World

​​​​​​1.

“America loves to repeat its mistakes — one half the world drowns while the other celebrates— reveling in their victory cries — (so-called “Christians” do the least “Christian” things) — god save us from the grave they pave for us — Stars and Stripes with specks of blood — red dunce cap of the narcissistic sexist racist zombie(s) enslave us— the 34-time-convicted felon leads his fellow inmates to take over the asylum — January 6th, Part Two – dismantling the system of education that gives the ever-hungry mind a chance to escape the shackles it was born into – (so-called “Christians” do the least “Christian” things)-- we’re all bodies cuffed to one another – cows in the slaughterhouse whose brains have been deliberately softened by social media, Faux (Fox) news, an algorithmic echo chamber that only allows others to confirm what they already believe – so that we don’t realize what danger we are in –  its the stunting and the stunning of the human cattle– the shot to the brain before we’re suspended, dangling, bleeding – the dehiding and evisceration might’ve already taken place – (so-called “Christians” do the least “Christian” things)-- and who will speak for the innocent animals thrown into this situation? – our voice (box) is already being removed – heart-like, it will quiver, spurt out a few drops of blood, and die with its knuckles raised in a faint-like fashion over its head a few moments later with the words ‘Why me?’ stamped in red ink on its permanently blue, immobile lips– America loves to repeat its mistakes.”

​​​​​2.

He would broadcast daily from the end of the world – much as he did decades before the 34-time-convicted felon took over – to those who didn’t know they were already enslaved – those force fed “Christian”, Nationalistic doctrines, propaganda they accepted with an idle bob of the head – through speakers culminated from his fingertips – words, songs utilizing the quiet melody of the page – via the most secretive yet immediate PA system – the mind – and, though some understood and related to his message (especially the more understanding, open-minded, marginalized souls), it was lost on the less innocent animals who were herded, couldn’t leave through poor wages and a sense of “American exceptionalism”, “patriotic duty”, and various other pride-instilling nonsense terms that had been hand printed on the gray matter of their unquestioning brains since birth – and, though this was his prediction, he still broadcast every day from the end of the world – hoping his fingers gracefully weaving threads on computer keyboards – frantically fuming truth – pen dancing across the page with a straightforwardness that demanded attention from even the least concerned onlooker– would be the antidote for the shot to the brain – the green slime serum – that have left us all so stunted and stunned – two times over – America loves to repeat its mistakes.   ​​

​​​​​3.

“In today’s news, one half of the world drowned while the other celebrated,” he reported. “So called ‘Christians’ do the least ‘Christian’ things.”

(It's All) Too Much, But Not Enough

feet arched in painful sidestep,

a sweeping, lifelong misstep,

across the same cracked concrete Dollar General entrance walkway

i walked over in my teens, feeling like life was too much, my worry won’t go away

i walked over in my 20’s, feeling like life was too much, my worry won’t go away

i walked over in my 30’s, and now into my 40’s, feeling like life is too much, my worry won’t go away

and i have a sick child at home

and i still must find the will to write today

and the leaves need mowed and raked,

several days of effort itself,

before the winter snows come

and i’m behind on all my bills

and i’m worried that I won’t have enough gas to get me to my next payday,

which is two whole days from now

and i’m worried that I won’t be able to get my kids to their daily barn stops and to their dance classes because of this lack of gas, lack of motivation, lack of money, lack of self-esteem, lack of success in both my day and in my daydream jobs

and i’m worried that i’m too boring, too ugly, too one-note, too quiet, too introverted

i’m too much, but not enough

and i’m worried about missing a movie i’m planning on seeing tonight because of lack of money, lack of time

(even petty, temporary worries

stab the heart hard with frantic fervor)

and i’m worried that my writing will continue to get ignored

and i’m worried that publishers and literary contests will continue to do the same with my eagerly submitted verses, tales, manuscripts

and i’m worried that the writing i’ve dedicated my life to is just another hollow sham that won’t expose itself as such until there is little life left in me —

if these endless worries are really life at all—

and i’m worried that my voice is fading, irrelevant, inconsequential—

i’m too much, but not enough

(even petty, temporary worries

stab the heart hard with frantic fervor)

and i’m worried about inflation—

affording the rising, unaffordable price of everything

(i can’t even afford the gas to get me to work

to pay for the gas to get me to work)

and i’m worried about people becoming evermore hostile, vulgar, loud, and self-absorbed

and what that says about where we are all headed

and i’m worried about not having enough money for Christmas, for my daughters’ after school activities, and having enough time off work for family holiday gatherings

(i know i can’t afford either)

and i’m worried about the recent presidential election, a nation once again trumped,

and what it says about what really lurks in the hearts of mankind

and what that says about where we are all headed

and i’m worried about my job trying to target me with unnecessary write ups for things i didn’t do

and that my supervisors are trying to either fire me or get me to quit, regardless of the many years i have there under my belt and the many tasks i simultaneously pull off every day there

and i’m worried

and i’m tired

and i’m tired of being worried

just as i always have been when i make these early morning, 8 a.m. Dollar General trips

and as i find myself again walking over this familiar cracked concrete with the same familiar, cracked worries, concrete thoughts

(“i’m too much, but not enough”)

just as i was when i was at this place, thinking the same thoughts, going through the same motions in my teens, 20’s, 30’s, and now into my 40’s

feet arched in painful sidestep

a sweeping, lifelong misstep

(even petty, temporary worries

stab the heart hard with frantic fervor)

i’m too much, but not enough.

Andrew Buckner is a multi award-winning poet, filmmaker, and screenwriter. His short dark comedy/horror script Dead Air! won Best Original Screenwriter at the fourth edition of The Hitchcock Awards.  Also a noted critic, author, actor, and experimental musician, Buckner runs and writes for the review site AWordofDreams.com.