The
price of life is a question. Metallurgists hunt through the wreckage for
dead friends and family and emotions.
Billionaires
kill, do not have babies, pour south through ice into the tomb of machinists, but
those in the ground are tombs of mother and father no more.
Head blood already pours
dead America. You badly and violently think to erase yourself. As to why, a
question silently and violently granted my wish to be removed from Earth,
removed violently from Jupiter’s tomb—an exploded electron flailing in the
grass, raining from the sky, failing to fucking death.
No one can beat you harder
and faster or more violently into submission. The violator goes paid or unpaid into
service. Regulators die, metallurgists die, violators make billionaires grow
sick, their unpaid screams echoing through the tombs—
—sun fading like the young
and beaten to death. Seeing them dead, my payment.
