By Brad Baker
The starry night sky, flat-chested image of a universe, yawns above us, the naked body of Nut, but a single beauty, body in the heavens; those heavens no more harp-filled than a lying grand piano, and no more the house of god than tree-Named-blacktop-neighborhood, USA
Computers are hammers that confuse us, beating our faces and bodies to a pulp, but raising our voices and nails up to the void, to be lost in the radio mixture of war-time protests lost and bleached swing-dances beneath wicked old crows. Were we to remember what words meant, we would not tangle ourselves so.
We forget the concrete jungle, and embrace the plastic desert, where the faces of humans look hyper-real beneath Hyperion spotlight arrays, and the keyboard is our pocket crib, always the mobile mobile, waiting to soothe scraped knees and scraped lottery tickets.
The world hears us less and less as we box its ears to olive-oiled cauliflower. We hear ourselves more and more, and our hearts beat caffeinated, unexorcisable demon-rhythms; the symphony’s drowning out all its instruments with those blaring carbon-dioxide cannons.
Scoop out your insides and eat the cosmos, for it’s all we may embrace; for like its planets we are many, we are hard, we are small, and we are unseen. We all spin, though, and mean something or nothing to the feet which tread upon us