Oil hangs heavy in the air,
permeates the soil around
sputtering engine and rhythmic
clank of rusty praying mantis shape,
whose push rod probes like a fist
fissured strata miles below to
suckle Earth’s black and primal
forest and fossil ooze while nearby
metal tanks stand stalwart,
offering salvation to the crude.
But you want to talk about relationships,
forget the rise and fall of progress,
lament the many buried complexities
which rise to stain the surface
and fill the stalwart metal
of your resolve to leave,
left brain—
right brain—
no brain—
some nonsense about bipolar disease.
Author notes
Written March 18th, 2004
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