The days are bleeding into each other. I lie here in rotation. Great spokes of red and black matter – rainbowed above. Vectors spear the stratosphere, slicing rifts through lightwave, cloud, and sound as the wheel of chaos spins wobbled on axes. Time is wobbly.
Chlorophylled trees drip green and crackle in the wind, independent of this and all things pertaining to the blood of men. Power lines make graphing paper out of them and shoot currents into the birds that chatter atop. The birds are wired to the black coffee frequency of the machine. And the machine is on. If you cared to sit and learn its language it would tell you that it doesn’t need you anymore. It’s not going anywhere.
Prometheus ascends on Forest Service Road 224 to learn to walk human; to gawk like a man. His legs bend on joint and uncrumple. The rolling lumber and gate of the beast coupled with neurotic jerks, hair-lip grimace of the anti-man. Prometheus walks back. Sprung on the tail end of the cosmic spiral. Walk like a lady. With purse and wiggling ass.
I jest, for this is all in fun with the idle hand of the titan reaching up from the earth to a girl who does not understand. But oh, how we have spoken in the night. Those hours spliced thin from all others and we walk alone. And I would tell Zeus and that lonely old mountain to erase them all, but oh hell, they have cast themselves in the stones of the immortals. So when the scales were balanced we saw that we could do nothing with them, and we would give them nothing for all that they have done!
My god, there are 444 active nuclear reactors on the surface of the screaming earth and it wants them off. Shoot them into the sun with your plastic bottles and beer cans, car parts, and all your Great Pacific Garbage Island crap. Fix it, and afterwards the jungle will take itself back if it can but the beasts will never speak to you again; and neither will we. For here in the corpses of the young that you have buried in tombs – bones too deep, detritus starved – lies your Buddha, your Maya, your Antichrist.
We’re not dead yet. We must watch as the fallen angels of our time desolate themselves. Wrapped together in rapture. Shattered on tavern walls. They fall on paper and drink in song; giving all of themselves over and over again. And oh how we love you when you dance around the fire. Hoot and holler and forget your names, because in this how will they call you? Who will you obey? How will they make you stay where you belong?
And how will you feed yourselves when your claws cannot break the ground? When your teeth can cut through leaf but not package? All the iodine on earth will not treat your waters so you will not drink from them. African, when did you forget that you were African? How much longer will you fire your gun upon the ancient one?