September 2, 2012

poem 303 of a poem a day for 2012

 anthropological foie gras theatre  

to divide a seed
from the bleeding
husk of humanity
we must waste
on the vine

what was Columbus thinking
upon discovering this place again
was he doing it for God
doing it for country
doing it for declarative sword
of his own bought view
of mankind stretching out
the continents
with stuck blades-flags 
of a civilized demise

I swear I can hear
someone say
document everything
every time I want
something beyond survival
beyond taking pictures
drawing sticks
in the drying mud
of my memory

cutting out words
from newspaper foundries
on the kitchen table
to at least let someone know
what I find on the way
in to my American madness

where I found out
American dreams were hollow
where I found out
the subsidies and placations
from the corporate world
cost a heart to get ahead
on a stewards leash

I do it too
if only to ensure
my genetically 
modified offspring
will be more able
to rule their one choice
in this world

to hush up
or do the right thing
and hear a calling
under the street corner light
camera storing compliant rewarding
the consumer with the gilded lotteries
in a sold insurance based nationalist world

even just to know that
there is a choice to be
something besides yourself
in a lock-stepped 
bottom feeding
eating needs 
when someone
will always be
unfairly edged out
seems the right
kind of hunger 
in this brave 
new world

if you are to ever feel welcome
in the landscapes of this depleted world
rife with the zombie apocalypse
ripe with the wind carrying
the American philosophy
on steroids as if it were
an airborne pathogen
sweeping through 
the post-industrial
modernized world 
that doesn’t want
to be late 
to the stripper show

resource allocation
becomes guns to a finite
leaving every Eden imaginable
a ghost shell past

there will be only museums then
what used to be now
is a world of electric empty
chasing who we are
out there 
to be filled 
with something
that we can 
bring back home

if only we sold for greater profit
these little pieces of ourselves
the trinket charms
in every form the Sun
paints on our soul’s windows

our eyes have become
a memory of admission lines only
and remaining hope left
from all our wonder at birth
tined to the swindled
handfuls of magic beans
and the campfire storied
return of golden eggs
in the rain

we know now
to invest in the next great boon
to promote the coming wave
of self dug graves
and to hustle the moments
just around the corners

so we document everything
before it happens again
and we catalog it
so we can make the facsimiles
look real enough to eat
real enough to satisfy
our needs long enough
to move our feet away
from the ticket window
and past where our eyes
can see beyond the curtain call

back to the tits and ass
and the lining of more gold
in the fewest pockets possible
while the dashboard
is still all paradise
with no promise
that you will ever
be found anywhere
but driven 
to death 
for more
of this 


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