The Waste of Memory
I have come to the white people ocean,
this furthest point on my map--
the edge of the known universe.
Here death clings to everyone,
like white toothpaste on a careless morning.
Everybody has a little of it,
caught in their hair, their eyes, their teeth--
it touches the absolute zero of their souls.
I have searched for you here,
among the derelicts and the walking dead,
but none of them know you.
You have chosen a different place.
You have taken your death to another country.
Your soul is beyond my knowledge
or my faith in navigation.
And here on the shore of
the endless white people ocean
even the memory of your fingers
has disappeared, has been frozen
into an isolated block of atomic time.
And your name has been drowned
by the separation of the continents
and the persistence of the cold.
the nader communique "earth
first. make mars our bitch." - dale gribble
ralph nader's all in your head, man.
he's an android, a republican schill:
that whole corvair business was a conspiracy.
a carefully funded, well-planned gambit,
carried out by the right with record precision
puts a crazed oil baron in power and leaves us
holding the bag. like, i'm green with envy.
ralph
nader's all in your head, man.
he wants us to hunt whales.
the campaign absconded with our justice
like makah harpoons on the back of a ferry
carrying us down to mukilteo to blow
a few dozen quarters in those revved up machines
that dance with berries like lozenges
and other random capitalist symbols.
ralph
nader's all in your head, man.
the wto is on a hollywood soundstage.
it's an elaborate distraction. the martians run the show.
they need to keep your attention while they conquer earth,
starting with texas and working their way
into the civilized world. that's why they're the green
party,
and nader's a little green man. no human being would give
our country over to a mumbling blueblood
with father issues and something to prove.
that's how we know: they've all got tentacles,
and giant antennae, to summon their alien masters.
ohm
morbid
black water, this blood is poison
& the remaining effigy couldn't
be called a person. noisy cricket limbs
brittle & sharp scratch static
into
these circuits, these maps of faith
and demolition. the maze refutes itself.
definite corners give way to dubious spirals:
computation becomes unholy.
saints
speak a language of lightning:
undone, the tarnished riddle of copper.
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