48 – Artifact

Artifact

Fucking centrifugal force.
Who ever threw a ceramic mug
with a handle right the first time?
Or fly fished. Or founded a state,
say Florida or North Dakota, out there alone
where the buffalo roam(ed). Or take
federal holidays: let’s agree today
is the day we do nothing for no reason!
We’ll leave the legislation. Later gator.
It used to be pantaloons on the line
and dog fights in top-hatted circles
and delightfully even rows of corn
or amber waves of mono-culture grain,
a quick dip in the pond with the missus
on a summer night, fireflies that might bight,
aye, that’s the life for me! Now: nano-bots
surfing your blood and the NSA retweeting
your OK Cupid profile (pwned!). Next: future
of cars that don’t need no stinking roads
where we’re going, Marty. Oval eyes
and silver-mesh unitards, giant brains
hooked into gianter mainframes.
Tall, tall arboreal cities anchored in nothing
but dust and trash and a magmatic core.
Time capsule. Their scientists (ours?)
root with bionic arms through our plasticity
for endless crap and radioactive everything.
Someday they’ll turn up an ugly no-handle mug
with a lazy glaze job and chicken-scratch
etched in the bottom. Attempted perpetuity.
I wonder, they’ll say, what it is? What it means?
Some things never change.

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