The trouble with the mainstream is its tendency to lull,
conducting and inducing us to sleep.
The current is hypnotic and the atmosphere is dull,
the water neither turbulent nor deep,
and floating in the middle of that stream,
entranced and never bumping either bank,
we drowsing hunch and nod until we seem
to be agreeing with our faces blank.

Velocitized we doven as we float.
We only disembark to walk in dream.
Somnambulating doesn’t rock the boat
but rests us unmolested in midstream
like millbound lumber: course in current set,
oblivious and prodded to forget.