Monday, April 6, 2009

*Summer, Winter: Squash, Machine*

The chugging motion
of the seasons
forms an egg, cracks inside
jokes
outwitting us all.

"One way to beat
this system is to join
the army!"
he railed, fingers
snapping. And that's how

we clipped the topic, dropping scissor
explosives, reviewing
the internal designs of the land.

Blame us and we will fill
the cracks with cement.
Lips close
heavy with burden: the concept

of time, enormous
apples, odd thoughts,
grunts
with blacked-out faces
plucking the dead
skin of summer
squash upon our neon highway.

Protected identities
blossom in salt and ice.
Wordless whispers
follow the borders
of four territories
with unique code names:

Winter, Spring, Fall and Summer.
Only not exactly in that order.

The process does not change --
it simply repeats.
Again. And again. And again.

Eventually we may run out
of raw sources, cell
numbers, complex
thoughts, small potatoes.
Eventually
we might just leave it
to the living
room around us,
'cause there's always time,
time to leave and let

the automatic system
of 100% natural bodies
quell the verbal riot, eternal
complaint of the innate
ability to do ourselves in
right,
right in the nick of time.

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