Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Saturday, November 11, 2006



Ceaseless angry engines crank and shudder
up the hill, owning it, stamping it, clamping their
mechanical teeth into the flesh of it and wresting off bits.
I reject them. I reject them.
My metaphors become mechanical,
even mypsyche is drowned in the candy fumes
of petroleum.

Lovely petroleum, sweeter than sex
for the gurgling, churning, gorged horde.
Hundreds of years cannot bring them up
from the mine shaft, cannot bring them into a home of themselves.
They are still sitting as sentry dogs, waiting for orders.
Who approaches? Who comes to straighten up?
Icons and rock-stars, thrusting phallus and pen;
both run dry at the mouth.

I will myself apart from them, I will some
organic splitting at the seam of the womb
that makes me a pup of this litter.
I reject my oneness with you, I reject the
boots and the cigarettes, the self-conscious patter;
the beige twin-set set, lunching and preening.
Time congeals around me, but not you.
You are your grandfather, he was his.

I will myself far, far off,
to hear your voices and machines become the same hum.

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