Night black as Bakken
oil, which malignly pours past silent
shipped in cryptic-marked tanker cars
under cover of darkness, rightly
so, they move obtusely opaque—
opposite downtown lights which stick to a wetted haze
in the distance, making this Midwest city glow
for miles—some say 150 of them away.
The shit we’ve seen, and haven’t.
That which creeps along can be found in a jet, in
a car, or on foot,
rock snow-crust, cold as a
flushed-toilet shower’s mist—you know; everything
is connected, retraced, unplugged,
tubed, tied, aborted,
Truths for lies:
This is safe,
This is fact,
This in fact is safe,
We care about you.
It is snug-up, or snug-down, or
just snug enough, or caught in between comfortable,
and I can’t go outside,
I have to decide.
Then it is: A pub visit, a flipped
switch, a lit door in the distance—these
palm trees have become foreigners
in desert sands which have turned to mud
by native rain power in your very living room
by way of: your very hand;
the vessel you hold,
repurposed from some ornate
decoration, from some ornate
description, from so-and-so’s ornate party,
or from some ornate magazine—ornate parts
And that is life:
black as night as petro ships by, as exhaust fumes fly,
as exhausted you sleeps, you snore, you don’t think;
as an “elected” official’s bank account goes cha-ching,
as a CEO draws outside of the lines, and talks energy.
(of course we need)
as the air goes in and out
of his mouth,
and in and out,
and in and out—
Like fucking, really.
Hey, you thought it.
Humans without a care,
they are there happily unawares.
With smiles on their dreaming faces,
as that napalm tube rolls on steel wheels in their backyards.