A field of thistles, díscharging
concentric waves of negative
theology, on a mountainside,
2010, May 23rd (is Whitsuntide),
would certainly
suffice as a source of the ever-obtainable not
enough sought
state of subtle shock
if he’ d close
this computer
and walk up the summit road
until the sea’ s in view. And maybe in
the southeast wind,
in broadcast waveform data therein,
microsystems stocks he has been
checking, clicking all day like an addict gambler, will
float up until
red numbers cross the black horizon
into green — two redtail hawks float up
on a thermal —
maybe even make some money while you’ re up here —
ask why is each second so
charged with a feeling of living in freak
Götterdämmerung days
of live free radical notion or die into negative white on white sun pride
burning away, but equally
charged with utopian headlong longevity crowing —
why can’ t I be steady?
Why is my only
balance built
of collisions and
cancelings-out of such sharp spike-of-chaos moods?
Field of thistles,
red and green.
Fields of dollars, thistles,
solidi and yen
and rand and rupees blowing off the curve of land.