Summer in a day winter in a day autumn and spring in a day
three days and four rough equivalents
still the days feel hot and slimy like a dying thing gasping
they're looking at nothing just breathing heavy in that
cold alien death
the death way of animals I suppose that's just
nature.
It's green and it was never like that before
not those last summers on the mountain where we were all
beating fans at our faces and muttering – we said nothing of real importance, then
just that it was hot
that we were hot
this devilish forsaken rock was never intended for human life
but ah progress
how can you be anything but misery
in new and exciting contexts?
When we colonize the planets in the solar system, and fill them with
our foul progeny, all fat and whining, we'll know misery on mars too
and fathers will herd mothers and children into new and
exciting vehicles, bound to every interesting thing to replace
the dead dreams of another time and place.
But what is a man?
Ultimately, I think we're seeking the same question, or
answer, if you will.
But beyond this nomad grief, there is a sense of familiar dread.
Production is a dead scene, long live the culture of consumption.
Our greed will not kill us before our stupidity – just as the bloated corpse of american dreams
all you need is a little water, a little rope, and a little concrete.
After that, the rest is easy
they'll find it days from now downriver blue and pus-filled
half-eaten
and cold.
But remember son that you are heir
to the legacy of pain, beholden to the
fingers beckoning from the past
all our legends peeking out from under
the hood of death.
And whispering the good ol' days
the good ol' boys in red white and
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