Condition Red on the Jones Plan
my own internal milk
and live-a-day honey. From savage bands,
architectures nest at universe’s end.
Take me to utopia
in the silo, the indomitable
conglomeration of hermits with friends.
A blink seizure in the boost reversal circuit
is a trinket in the river
soot inhibitor. Keep the dials below
the red and check the teeth
of every mandible. The walls have closed on rose
and thorns poke futurekind through.
The doings our surnames define
don’t protect against intercom gas
bombs. Can’t you hear the drums
on the continent of wild endeavor?
Some run, some go mad
some just cue
the getting-stuff-done montage.
The last president of perception denies the past
is another country where death doubles,
welcomes the valiant vigilante
decimation exercise machine.
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