It was never their war, but they came to herald it anyway,
falling upon monocultured and neonick’ed swords for us,
Is the life we feed or let bleed.

The cutting of you is the cutting of me.
The long.loaned.effort of one devolved beat, the tired.bell.toll of all.
My katana finds yours // and yours forms me //
A swipe to your skin rushes red from mine.
A defense committing a sonic roil of collateral deed.

We do not carpet bomb hives with malice,
but lose our innocence in a death by a thousand cuts.
In a land sprayed free from pests, while dead of nutrients,
yoked by this rebar.reinforced.inertia,
we lose our constitution to concrete impertinence.

Here belies Snowden’s bad dream of turnkey tyranny,
with nothing to stop the train from its own military.industrial.track.
There is no innocence in being the innocent that this haphazardly happened to.

When the only language spoken is “attacking back” for medieval ore.
Toward a nescient demise, down the food chain we go like relics.
As remnant leathers we are laggardly defeated and rightly fossilized
by this epoch of utterly preventable, indecent descent.
Toward a nescient demise, down the food chain we go, like relics.

There are many truths in this world that are hard to tangibly decipher.
Like why I go to Costco to buy avocados and end up with a pontoon.
But what I know to be true is this:
that the last precious metal and unmined mineral left upon the land
is the unrefined.honeycombed.heart, open and never certain
for in the milieu all else is already pressed into chattal, collateral, and currency,
hammered and jeweled into crimes of accessory,
offering only the hard.rimmed.finality
of this lost.last.mile of single.minded.track.

Unpollinated… Here… we… are. In indecent descent.
Was there ever an honest broker from atop the food chain?