the generations of elbow grease
spoke for themselves
our lot was labor
& liquor
made us feel bigger
than monstrosities, sooty
for the tazing
amoebic cancerous darlings
whispers from lineage to lineage,
clutching their pain
as if the lord’s charity,
a disintegrating property deed
their kind
never had
such violence in the value
oranges, grays, browns
the men upstairs tectonic
in self-rusting air
masters & slaves cemented
at the indiscernible limit
between breather & breath,
paternal trinities
& spirit apart
ghostchrist
accretion
the children the comeuppance
the hatchet’s recalcitrance to burial
low on breastmilk sensations
ejecta jittery
on an a.i. poppy field
land,
here is our lack of a messiah
between hapless canticles
land,
here is our lack of a messiah
this generation of exorcists
set out on miles of road
to a lonesome conversion experience,
found the promise
that techno-divinity
would nourish & save,
rooting toward
eastern rays
their belief restored
in needing to choose to believe
what there will be
instead of humans,
vain prayer, midas touches
event—stretch—gut
as per the wheels of
lightspeed
around a chaos-devouring silhouette,
the first image ever
of a true center