Dear Corporation
I don't know how to say
how I feel politely, or poetically, or
without the jugular and collapse of the immediate
heart, so tonight, I won't say anything at
all. Just stare out the window at our
stunned little writhe. Hold back the
strongest urge to knock out a few of the
capitol's most critical walls, replace its fiber
optic cables with lightning bugs, replace the
investment bankers all with bunker busters.
I lock eyes with the capitol's bright and
empty rooms and admit that, sometimes,
deep in my affluent, American cells, I miss
my body carved to projectile. I miss
trebuchet shoulders and knuckles flaked to
arrowheads, miss my hands massive and
molded from molten to the bolts of ballistas.
I miss blackjack and cudgel and quarterstaff
and flintlock. I miss pummel and pike and I
am not proud of this. I know it's not a
healthy feeling. I try to un-arm, to un-cock.
I try to practice my breathing. I try The
Master Cleanse, The Stationary Bike, The
Bikram Sweat, The Contortion Stretch, The
Vegan Meatloaf, The Nightly, Scorching
Bath, The Leafy Greens and Venom
Television, The Self-Mutilation of a Winter's
Run, but we can only cleanse our bodies so
much before we realize it's not our bodies
that need detoxing.