January 9, 2013

the terrible gild of bandaging out of control...

Nick Ut / Associated Press. © 1972

I am a child of GI Joe and that little girl running, burning from napalm, in that seminal picture, so long ago

due to a plastic embryo logic
I have indentured myself
to the salt mines
open mouthing a basin
of wordless surrendered eyes
I can still very much smell
the sulfur delves
of my base instincts
should I stay a taut bow slave
an accident of igneous rock
an article of confederation
a formation of freewill burning
my soul for jellied fuel and clear sight lines

when electricity sputters along avenues
and synapses wired to our skins
we are limbed, in a land desperate
for a taste of nature without us in it
begging for what frenzy can be
without the locomotion of bi-pedals
and bi-sects with brains bent
into destructive methodologies

we safety net the butterfly effects
the what ifs, and what ever else
we can get away with
weave it into parallel universes
swelling embraced accordions
lungs fill, ready to burst
breathing is hard to do
when you do not want 
to wake up tomorrow, first

sometimes, I care not to know
whether even weather knows me,
you or anyone else that can be
subjugated in the mirror
drifting into places nearer
to the warm entrails
of resigned, exhaled

we melt sand into glass
silver black it, painting
other sides of things
we say let’s keep everything
for tomorrow, in erasable destinies
washing machines, consuming
as much want as we can fit
under the heat stretch and shrink
plastic wrap factory untied states 1967
mechanized war gaining steam
bleeding leading news blades
throats crawl quiet to old age now
plastic bubble cardboard backing
photo print real, don’t open please
you net us more worth
never having been touched
by your own humanity


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