O lord of styrofoam,
we have built a continent in your image.
Amen, please grant us eternal life.
All sacrifices are quid-pro-quo.
Faustian market pressures.
Foucault described for us
the aesthetic of chain-link,
feasibility of happy endings.
Damn shame that god blew the CGI budget
on a few unidentified winged things.
The gravesite of an albatross
is identifiable not by the bones,
but by the mound of plastic
its stomach leaves behind.
Lately, my own piss glows from the vitamins.
or heavy metals. Bioaccumulation
of guilt. The morning’s architecture
of stillness. We are what we require
most: a catastrophe of objects.
We could do worse than sacrifice
for the sake of something beautiful.
Tomorrow will forgive our disinterest
with a locust breeze. We owe a decorum
at least. Cocaine in the Thames
is another problem eels don’t need,
an expert says. It’s giving trickle down
with a Mad Max scarcity plot.
Our ancestors believed the reward
of diligent bean-counting
was its own. So did the Fed.
A civilization unwilling to war
over fruit is one unable to yield
ripe bellies, sticky fingers.
Or so the memo goes.
The spaghetti network of
cables is impervious to
terrorism, but highly
susceptible to sabotage
by curious marine organisms.
Proximity is born by infrastructure,
warm liquids. Mankind has grown
too reliant on calcium; saltspray,
ceramics. We at once have language
to name tragedy, but not enough
to speak it out of existence. “Sorry”
would be a good word to say
to the whales, I think.
There are others, too.