II: 1991

Objectify. No cameraman tripping over
protuberant roots or having his foot
swallowed by the swilling sand will do.
Present the men in charge, men faithful
to the way things must be done, set square
on a proscenium, the MC's of a deep
technology. We'll see
no one die.
Objectify.

My grandmother had her own East
European way of celebrating Easter's
death and renewal. She would dye
the eggs by boiling them in onion skins.
We'd each grasp one in our fist with
one small round end bulging through the circle
of our forefinger and thumb, and a small
point peeping out below. We'd click them
sharply against each other with our fists
until one broke, and then we'd eat them.
I remember no thrill in the game, only
my grandmother's large, smiling teeth.

Objectify. Money is the corelative
of a reality very resistant to a
poet's mind but known well to
every animal whose food is not
provided and whose shelter is
vulnerable to stronger claws. Men
faithful to the way things must be
done understand that heads must
crack together and many must be
eaten in a wrenching death or poverty
if there's to be any renewal or wealth.

Beneath the waking mind that numbly
casts off moorings as it floats to
sleep lies the narratized incoherence
of our dreams which float on thick
darkness from which depth can arise
a terror so complete that like a
rocketeer sucked out of gravity
we leave behind our lungs as we
are hurled into a bone-dead
shriek.
Objectify.
Money and war are the goddesses
of this deep.