"October 29-- the Dow Closes Down 11,118" I--
To make one thing of me, Lord, Rilke writes,
or to, work me, Lord, as Janis sings, like a field song,
mockingbird variations for which I can find no equivalent.
And no sooner have I written them down
than I want to post it on a screen, where
I can see all manner of bodies, burned, burdened,
crushed by the weight of factories, here stitched
into this night.
Look up from the street, which holds all manner of soldiers,
before, during, after their tours of Afghanistan, drones.
The actress, like some character in a Greek tragedy
who cut off her breasts, now flickering
before me, cold candle.
A fire I cannot feel hums through me, particles sure,
as any unseen cancer or cracks in the wall of a garment
factory--
work me, Lord-- covered in paint.
II-- why must man always take on things--
map galaxies, name particles--
while factories burn, ash rises to satellites?
The question I carry around, like a locket
with a child's hair.
The question of dead children comes with mine.
Begins, the world which is economic system does not care.
And in the wilderness beyond, which is particle, attraction,
and distraction, I slip from the grip of garment factory fire
to ask, over and over, can you take it all in?
Galaxy after galaxy?
Open your eyes wide through love or force or training?
III-- let's remember this sky.
And underneath, the factory workers,
like a thought that dark matter thinks, a fluttering candle.
Let's place ourselves beneath this hood of night.
You can't gate this, razor wire, Guantanamo Bay this.
The hospice nurse says rest.
In the space between breath, let there be space.
In your gaze, let there be nurse.
Before you, check your status update,
wash clothes, pull up the rug.
Like my status update--
my revolutionary status update.