like an anvil, precariously
on the heads of those who sit across seas
the same story is written
in heavy encyclopedic books
crushing black crowns across the street
we read these books every day
their stories are written on keys
on magic wands in blue hands
clenched to a bloodless hardened block
round magic wands with electric shocks
on magic electric streets:
with bulldozers and magic hole punchers
ripping through live construction paper,
with white chalked outlines
marking where to soak the hard, blacktop-paved ground
we need our silent streets and beauty sleep
in our contracts, careers
conversations with friends
on electric magic screens
light, paperless news filters
in exchange for Personalized Messages
they are written in red paint:
the sacrificial lamb’s blood
protecting the first born son
and his God-given rights:
flowing from the strength of his limbs
that comes by creating pain;
the creation of thingness
it has a certain logic to it
a story written in equations
opaque instruction manuals
operating a terrifyingly Productive
of quantified living apendages
because there is nothing sacred
as the freedom of selective having:
“look, Ma, I did it all by myself!”
