and contemplate this cellular abomination.
I am a thing that runs and shits
and eats, to no avail. All my creation
decorates the mindless froth
of genocidal beasts, who share my skin.
This violence is what we have always been.
The other stories really can't compete.
The dreams of Whitman, Ginsberg
are all gone. I won't be pawn
of wishes that they cast.
My forefathers were drunk
on progress gas. That buzz
has passed.
And yet I feel an unexpected peace,
a strange and darkened joy. No longer
toy of falsity, my manhood stirs
again: I can accept the justice
of our end. I celebrate the death
of humankind. Their winding stories
tended to be blind: mine need not be.
I see the beauty more
because I know it's not for me.
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