From the Sons to the Sun – monkeys running things down here…

Some mountain top village, a villain peering from a tower down at the ant sized humans below. The all seeing eye burns, a magnifying glass in the hand of a giant, snuffing out lives for entertainment.

“Deadliest attack by insurgents since the fall of Fallujah.” Those lines leak into the system, cross the wires, disseminate their data into the farthest regions to be cast aside and remembered in the late hours, before complete system shut down. Flash of body parts, smell of diesel and burnt asphalt in desert sun. Oil skimmed off the top of the Euphrates, that artery of the Fertile Crescent, pumping more than blood from an ambushed convoy into those verdant hills and outlying fields.

Count the stars. Kiss the solar system. 98 million miles and one new planet discovered, or moon.

and those ceramic heat tiles on the shuttle; “it’s a clunker, piece of shit car,” in orbit, sent up by baboons and rhesus monkeys in starch white short sleeved button up and collared dress shirts, coffee stains, no more smoking in the control room.
It signifies our lack of importance.
It signifies our obsession with god.
To shoot the distance, close the gap to heaven and escape our earthly vessel to feel complete. And then it becomes clear for just a second through the haze – a cylinder of sun – that nucleus of us – shines down into a swath of land, half burned by incendiaries, the other half covered in elephant grass that sways in the low breeze.
It’s the Oreo effect.
It is this wishful thinking that will do us in.

American Skeleton

A hillside spitting like a punctured artery
beneath the bridges of commerce
where the forgotten forge lonely bonds
with the crude beauty of the elements.
Sprayed in defiant patterns,
dancing in a symphony
of despair
The assassin sleeps without anxiety
Each bone has a function
And all the dead men sing
…we’ll cut your throat if you say too much
…we’ll cut your tongue out
Drink the silence
we are histories whores…

Rubber Barons

Rubber barons in glass citadels,
directing commerce with a flick of a cigar
It’ll take more than that.
More than dirt to keep us buried.
Whip the head back and laugh through pig lips.
You’ve squealed your way to the top
and we can hear the voice over the loudspeaker
cracked and chirped like broken glass through silk
Telling us to stay inside.
Hide away thoughts of tomorrow and trade them for the fears of today.
If you make it past the bulldozer men in their pig suits
spit in the cold blue eye of the static god,
and give him our pain and toil when sending him to the void.