consumption

I’m sure this will be

rewritten thru mutations

within these words

when programmers

delete forms

we poets need

is when we will

become

obsolete

Moon Sequence

I.

Last night Luna rose

over our Eastern Sea

like no human’s ever seen.

Only one porthole view

through deathly clouds

incubating the Great Egg Harbor.

Luna rose a perfect circle

tossed by Myron, now in suspension.

Remnants of Theia reflected

 in alien orange,

brighter than Sol

(whose rays provide color

still, but not the same).

As lightning strikes purpled

the Atlantic structures underneath

the ocean rose with Luna, rose ominous,

pillars and pyramids stood naked.

Our nation, in three century utero, collapsed

off the coast of New Jersey. Another failed experiment,

another corrupted civilization left to liquid, then to ash.

II.

Fear, survival instincts in full swing

while operating machinery speeding

south on a bowed bridge looking

east as Luna rose. Death

embodied in the sky

explosions, natural explosions

in natural grandeur white death.

Luna rose as she never has

as illusions nullified fear was reality

at its clearest. Luna rose and she never will

in similar form, life and nothing in one moment.

The storm consumed the atmosphere. Consumed itself.

Atoms vacuumed into oblivion.

Bovine humans munched cheeseburgers

while driving through dark energy warping

vapid brains. Magenta tissue bled

out sentience. Luna rose.

III.

These humans were not scared

out of sheer stupidity. They felt safe

in their machines. Congested asphalt artery,

nine at night, Friday, June 13th, 2014.

Luna rose in proof of their ignorance.

She devoured particles in purgatorial drift,

planet Earth. Space shuddered Terra

dark matter pulsed into minds

people felt frightened

inexplicably. Immediate fear of blackness.

Animals froze in abeyance obeying nature.

Humanity continued to destroy,

to feign solutions, to pop pills,

to disdain their immune system

to ignore their self-inflicted wounds.

All the while precedents loomed

in the past. They never realized

they inhabited houses of Masonic stone.

Let alone understood that the Scottish Rite’s

preeminent child would fall faster

than those deemed lesser.

That the child’s scrapes would fester.

IV.

Luna rose on in spite,

out of spite of America.

Oxygen sucked out of air.

This time the fire.

Although pharaohs chose the stars

which killed their enslaved, unwanted brothers and sisters.

As the empire fell in pre-meditated fashion, the elite escaped

in Russian rockets. No more humans

needed for sustenance of the few.

No longer human humans would float

past Luna, and harvest her gray helium 3 tears.

Luna rose no longer over Earth

for there were no humans

left to see. Luna rose in witness

and condemned yet knew she could do nothing;

she vowed never to forget

until everything collapsed again. Luna rose

until the end. And as her visage faded

from the collective memory of all sentient existence,

Luna rose again, somewhere,

since death could never die.

beyond the mind

humans huddled in cramped bungalows and ranchers

rodeo-ed in by electricity aging humans

over glossy wood artificial hands dangle

mouths agape sick pale blue light

stew drips from blistered lips

in the dead night only one is left

in the living room barely breathing

slimy gray nose hairs drooping

parting blood vessels throb giant inhuman

faces digital streams into mind

thoughts seep out the screen

beyond the wind one last time

In the Future

when you die

or are found

dy                ing

 

there will be an expert

a digital historian

poking at your retina

browsing through the light

roaming about your thoughts

but

only if you’re special

you see because they’ll see the history

of your mind

the collective human web

browsing history

scrolling down the info

of your spine

cause what’s it all for if not for

documenting a life transferred

from space to space-less-ness

then when we all scroll down

your paper skin pages

you’ll be immortal

if only for a little while

Just Another Requiem

A thrush picks at plastic

as chemicals cement both ends of beak.

 

The flutter of wings travel past sound

not faster, making gentle things

 

in the mind behind and beyond

machines speeding down the street.

 

An unassuming bird leveled

by artificial friction.

 

Maybe their end already went,

and this is just another requiem.