Technical Armor

This is what it's about then,

isn't it?  The leftover, mesmeric

scraps of mash-ups & counter-culture?

tossed in with bones & bouillon?

This is what it's come to then?

The spatial collapse of now and

almost-now? -- piled neatly into

nasal cavities? waiting to sneeze?

This must be the right time,

right?  To lay down our spartan

defenses, hiding in the attic

all these years?  Handle with Care.

Burnish it

Brandish it

        Wield it Brilliantly;

                          Carry it Top-Heavy

                          Spilling Digits.

This is our unfurnished

destiny?  To speak of the rot laid

before us?  in continually uninteresting

ways? blown to the ground by warm breath?

We've bellied ourselves

in backyard composting bins, in

the physical doors to nowhere in

homemade marmalades & pestos.

We've nuzzled each other

with the commodifications, counter-

clockwise stagnations & stases.

Crystalline shards on our elbows.

We're the leather-bound mole-

skin impersonating vinyl or ceramic

or anything else conveniently dis-

covered in black & blue scrapheaps.

Stare at Me, Austin.

Stare at Me, Jealousy.

         Stare at Me, Unmoving

                                Callous Kettle

                                Calling Itself.

We're the wind I've swept

beneath my feet?  We're the

tragic stoicism?  The mythic

throw rug? on the fast-track

to the spare room?

-[m]