The quiet kill of these modifications to seed
made not in our names, but in our proxy,
like the slow burning bridge of every sacred lodge,
we feed ourselves mightily to the corporate feeders
with a willing and inactive catatonia,
becoming   //   agreeably and inevitably   //
the planet’s next wave of buried bones and future fossil fuel.

The maltese honey bee of the genus Apis, the Oligocene recent, the carniolan—
a gold.dusted and lionhearted legion holocausted by limbic.pear-shaped.decision,
Under the corporate helm of melting caps, monocultures, and monolithic cash
against contrail lines in cloudless skies, downed from zika.feared.trees in midflight
stomachs swelling wide from the empty feed of a monetized food supply,
here the walleyed.one.percent buy fifth homes under the great sport of brazen tax evasion while we deathnail the
common sense of us all to the wooly brain logic of mutated corn.

Causality being the casualty of this undeclared 3rd world war
waged entirely by the entitled in a 1st world.genocidal.claim
to a mutually.ensured.suicidal.profit.chain.
this astonishing lacuna in the comatose iris
awakens a fraction of a generational second too late.

We are all reduced to carbon and tightly unspooled thread
In the last wishes of the waiting.wildfire.end.

//   We desecrate or we demonstrate.   //
Upon the shoulders of forbearers, we build cathedrals.
Rubbled by palms lacking the onus of intent,
we snowball droughts to tear them all down.
In these trysts between iron or absentee fists,
we find no malice in the accidental unstewarding.
though elevation or degradation of truth happens only in the carrying—
for all pollen is left vulnerable, venerated, and viable
only to the interpretation of its pollinator.

What did the fire say to the sword before she bent?
Must every dying rail, malleable metal, or recalcitrant soul
wait for the galvanic cataclysm to be re-forged?
What will be made of each absentee voter in this oncoming lavic roil?

Aren’t our palms in the congress and the clay? in the shallows and the shale?
The death of every good framer’s blood rests in the cheeto crumbs and lackadaisical.bent.elbows of a modern day blogger -– who can blow hard online about a pothole but forget to participate in any exit poll, put thumb to ink on account of bad rain, run a race against a bigot or a devolving brigade.
Here slips the republic, a little bit day by day.
Too burdened by the mundane to protagonize the manifesto
Too glazed by trapping screens to march into the maddening streets—

If you undressed me, would I look like an accomplice, a grave digger, or an indolent enabler? would I look like a slumber party, a witness, a willow reed or a warmaker? Would I look like a raised fist, a whistleblower, a tired Rosa, a pussy riot, a whitewasher or a devoted ex-patriot?
If you undressed me would I look like cold stone or malleable flesh?
Would I look like a flaming reed of protest or a dying witness?
By the binary fires of life, we desecrate or we demonstrate.

When the next come to decipher our petroglyphs,
will they decide that we simply adored wreckage