Transcript
Never before have I so resembled British Petroleum.
They—it?—are concerned about the environment.
I—it?—am concerned about the environment.
They—him?—convey their concern through commercials, in which a man talks softly about the importance of the Earth.
I—doodad?—convey my concern through poems, in which my fingers type softly about the importance of the Earth.
They—oligarchs?— have painted their slogans green. I—ineffectual left-leaning emotional black-hole of a self-semaphore?— recycle.
Isn’t a corporation technically a person and responsible?
Aren’t I technically a person and responsible?
In a legal sense, in a regal sense, if romanticism holds sway?
To give you a feel for how soft his voice is, imagine a kitty that eats only felt wearing a sable coat on a bed of dandelion fluff under sheets of the foreskins of seraphim, that’s how soothingly they want to drill in Alaska, in your head, just in case.
And let’s be honest, we mostly want them to, we mostly want to get to the bank by two so we can get out of town by three and beat the traffic, traffic is murder, this time of year.
How far would you walk for bread?
For the flour to make bread?
A yard, a mile, a year, a life?
Now you ask me, when are you going to fix your bike and ride it to work?
Past the plain horses and spotted cows and the spotted horses and plain cows, along the river, to the left of the fallen-down barn and the right of the falling-down barn, up the hill, through the Pentecostal bend and past the Methodist edifice, through the speed trap, beside the art gallery and cigar shop, past the tattoo parlor and the bar and the other bar and the other other bar and the other other other bar and the bar that closed, where I swear, Al-Anon meets, since I’m wondering, what is the value of the wick or wire of soul, be it emotional or notional, now that oceans are wheezing to a stop?
