| When the process of subatomic selection reaches
a human shape, smoothing over differences becomes serious,
the gray occidental sins grave, the celestial weight of bodies
determined by impulse, the difficult omnivorous draw of water
for living cells, the long blond architecture released to
how wind takes, how rock is sound, the tow motors whining
out flamed propane to shade the way clothing separates and
declares. For what interconnects isn't only conflated.
The radio midnight broadcasting stops on fir tree bark visceral
in the air, oxygen filtered through baleen winds through the
million taken simultaneously in back-road counties, the senator
down-claiming "None of these liberties mean much after
you're dead," lost warrants blown in back-alley
wind untouched and not asked for, payday green of refrigerator
celery soaking afternoon gravity of an up and down vote, with
people erased, rolls scrubbed, sealed-off counting machines
preemptively tallied, robotic operatives positioned, grandfathers
challenged for who they are after waiting two hours in the
rain, and the exit polls off—an immense mathematical
impossibility.
Or take the seasonal lively harpsichord banging metallically
up into industry's chord to ring a further chord, a
fjord of chords with dark in-leanings. The incoming switchboard
preachers pointing to a god of vengeance, money draining its
liquids down nautilus curves with cross-spending, the shirtless
boy swimming an open sea, complexion of complex waters certain
depth of mind inside us has an eye for. Complex beneath metropolis
and colossal events, quick words that do not add or divide,
but a man might erase home-grown littoral espionage where
magnetic lines knot in lymphatic atmospheroid habitat sharing.
Now with fascists on the other end of the link, rifling their
old bibliage, computer-reading our throated voices in deference
to their sense of evil, the power of the executive
broiling for dollars in the cool of arrogance, the bowling
ball skulls of Iraqi yeomen claimed not to have been the target:
Pins on maps for anyone who speaks, the more the action the
more the results are scattered bones of the Bill of Rights,
such an angry government not listening to anyone not them
talking. For what interconnects isn't simply conflated.
Yet of course a human walking near the place moss on old
tree limbs touches down, and its green river down electrons
locks into a switch turned to light a room. We are part of
the whole estuary as great wheels turning have little to do
with money, revolving gravitationally under factory lunches
that make big shoulders lower, thighs heavy and greased, the
bone stool by the ketchup conveyor waiting with a slump. For
what interconnects isn't merely conflated.
All radio cells weighed down by what is other than radio.
The wind of calendars rushing.
Hornets down by lawn foliage escaping its monotone. Hornets
of intended control, flying raw meat beneath our seeing.
Flies loose between open-road kills buzzing it off under
solar flares circling debated sides, tiny raw-hatched spiders
scrambling down one another from an adhesive white pod that
kept them secret, animal cells heavy with thick foliage, receivings,
or comfort from an armored grip, justice from a foreign word.
No more debate is necessary, say those in the know.
But something in a booth: back in the open part, where company
men in a room cook up its chording, the invisible country
looming its future back behind gray clouds that clear inside,
mind in the room swept by belief and sharp loss fogged, erased
into light that returns what we have. For what we have chosen
may not be counted. |
