Draft #2 of this poem. Found myself watching people on the street–me included–so plugged into their phones that I felt overwhelmed by how enslaved we can be to our devices pumped full of energy from our energy slaves.


I’ve been looking at people as wreckage these days.
Bodies founded, scaffolded, adorned
then machined.

Here, right here, at the computer, my fingers
cleverly sidle up to the keys, seducing my eyes, my
ego on screen.

How inextricably linked our condition is to
how much we alter our worlds. How ineluctable the myth—
the tale I mean—

that humans forged and engineered progress and
owed something special as if imagination and power made
the ought, the should,

the entitlement’s been clarified since we unleashed fire
from wood then leashed it again, sculpted water into
channels, tilled soil, and

took the curious wolf and brought her into our
village and made her a four-legged fanged man. We
changed our annals.

The myth would make heroes of the engineers who took us
from the wolf to the computerized spinning of carbon fiber
bicycles and LED lights,

from the thatch and mud to the brick and steel. From the
corporate mill that breeds the wolf into an ornament to
warm our feet and

dumbly fetch a toy.


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