The land is closed and kept.

Drones constantly scan for outliers.

No quiet outpost can be left alone.

We are compost for the new

man-created gods.  They make

a devious geometry

from all our shit thoughts.

This is the world you've bought:

you'll fight for its right to kill you.

Protest for a state-approved death.

Advocate more humane destabilization.

Futility is your birthright.

What's mine?  Not the emptiness I explore

with glee: it doesn't need to be.

I'm free to let go

of everything you can't see.

NEW COMMUNITY GUIDELINES POLICY

Don't question group illusions.

Attack the antisocial.  Anyone

who questions group illusions is antisocial.

These visions are necessary for Big Projects.

Want to take the sandwich

out of your own mouth?  Don't be a fool.

Never doubt our Machine's superior genius.

Let the outlines of your soul be traced.

Trust the human race.

Language will be provided for you.

Use it liberally in the Assigned Free Speech Areas.

Staying Linked is priority number one.

We can regenerate the dying sun.

Control the weather for your wedding party.

Make pregnancy happen on a proper calendar,

approved by many others.

Post the pictures, scan for

antisocial tics.  Avoid germs.

Lick only synthetic lips.

Send text to accompany your Safety Partner.

Your fortress on the highway

can visit many hospitals.

Change sex, change consciousness.

Be a sport and sign on

for meticulous adventure.

Never be alone again!

Strip down and hit Send.

Triggers laid in thick subconscious flesh

strings of letters lost in an abyss

thorn electrodes figured in a kiss

the roads that flow from an enforced silence

oils of obsolete profanity

leaking from a dislodged glacier

a skeleton throwing stones

assembled from a mold

of fabricated bones

the housing that replaced our homes.

A black sun of life

washes the scummy oceans.

The midnight of renewal

brings forth stars that were drowned.

Angels of a deep fecund abyss

land on this ruined town.

Multiply the deer in every park!

Stop all the cars, dash through

their linear haze.

Let all our days be babies,

let babies be all our days.

My friends, my old friends:

our ways are no longer the same.

Our collapsing culture has alarmed you:

it enlivens me with darkest joy.

The pressure of our panicked architecture

has made me soft in the places

where you have hardened; it has

made me hard in the places

where you are soft.

Still, the flowers bloom, now

with something akin to vehemence,

in my vaginal, hot-peeled eyes.

But the stem from a refulgent Earth

is rooted deeper than this body, this time.

My girth grows in the tunnels

where you still refuse to go.

I'll let you wilt on the outside,

in the same place where

these blades and blossoms reign.

I can feel the pain of the water,

the erotic infusion of photosynthesis,

deep in the soil, in the cool caves

that my hands have painted.

I don't need sainthood to be resurrected.

Ferocious in the clutch of pink and green

thorns and petals in a stream of fists

opening into feathered fingers

the sky is a sphere

the trembling movements

of squirrels on powerlines,

pines creaking in the disturbed breezes

hawks calling over indifferent deer.

Where was I going?  The stores are closed.

I walked offroad and into the heart

of an inhabited rose.  The small depths

change you, the big depths rearrange you.

Sidereal epiphanies come soaring

through dark matter, apartments are arranged

into People's Mansions.  Utopia is crawling

on my bones.  How did it get here?  I got lost.

I lost everything, and everything was gained.

These blades have learned to paint.

This glue is filled with seeds.

This emptiness is almost all I need.

I see tree shapes that are cosmic figurines.

Lingering clouds compare.

The breath of birds above my thinning hair.

No more fencing this in unless it flourishes.

No more removal from the water of life.

Let the vines climb me.  I'll eat the ivy if I can.

The womb of life has vomited a twisted man.

I let the knots come out in slow uncoiling.

I furrow in the flower's plan.

It's not a plan.  The tendrils spouting luminescence

scanned me as I ran, with second sight.

They share not the fear of my errors.

In a cone of long green stems

my terror takes the silence of these threads

and hears it shred.

The voices of the shed are gone,

the fire's out.  The mushrooms

in my ribcage then now sprout all around.

Their colors abound and include odor.

I will lie in this clay and walk later.

The grasses synchronize lights.

That's not just fireflies.

It's the remembrance of a lover

who knew my drive was life

before I knew.  All thoughts are dew.

The water runs through claws

that turn to baby fingers in a blink.

The blood of my cells can think.

Over stone pastures it sings me

a song.  In exile I belong.