On the street the lurching cars
hurrying and cutting lanes to get
there faster. I’ve never had
a great time driving highways.
The online millions of connected men and now half-women
play speculation games, mah jong, DOOM, Call of Duty.
Storms dessicate lands that want to live, that should
live easily, abundantly, but no fruit can bloom here:
Sky crossed with chemicals while power lords
mandate more work, enslave free people with signals,
snares. Too many lines, too many varieties of
time bomb time. Click, boom, reload. Broken sun,
starlight leached by bleaching video, frequencies
blitzing across wild crags. Mountain goats lose
their wilderness. Everywhere is a park attraction
and tradition has become a dirty word on several
different levels. The pyramids are skyscrapers and
vice-versa and the plastic wrap is shiny, keeps
us fresh, inoffensive. The islands have been de-
veleoped, extra postage on this envelope. So
I’m sending this desert letter encrusted with pen
ink manufactured and pages torn and printed to futures
of oral traditions. Keep your love close to home.
Grow outward from there. These bastards want
to control everything.