Travis Macdonald

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.