39348100_2253704101578926_7501106536459010048_n

The clotting of ore makes ingot, simply.

Electrical storms skip and lurch through

The dark dust clouds that circle around clapped hands,

Just as blood passes, unrelenting, through singing pipes.

For now, nothing is equal: all is equal to itself

And industry understands only three emotions:

 

I: Anger.

A jewel bug found on an upturned stone,

Put under the jackhammers, the sand rammers,

Washed upriver in a molten current, along

With the crude and the brine, body ruined

And memory banished, to fold into the great grey pull,

Seaward, to tumble up on churning concrete tides.

 

II: Indifference.

Excavators leave their bite marks in clay

Ashen soot itches on the back of a knee,

And reveals itself inside a lung long after.

Water and earth were not meant to marry,

(Only coexist), and so they make mud in protest.

Boots are scraped off at the end of the working day.

 

III: Negative Pleasure.

Fail under black gravity and drown in reverse.

The palette of the sky wanes, as The Firmament shudders

She may never heal, her loving grace is not unlike oil

Or gemstones. Over the lowly, all-stirring chiefdoms

Of industry, their might and their misery, Her rejection

Of the hammer hangs like the jawbone on the inside of a cheek.