Thoughts on the Nanobot Shot

The mottled craw glows in umber scurry

Away from its all, towards a homeless glory
Of eggstitential trilobites gnawing on worms
That reach us, despite our best distancing digs,

Rather forlorn in the scion underbelly

Raging for an elegant page, where all the

Distended inflammatory doings 
Can be displaced like a virus is shed.

There is no immunity, only the gravity

Of the scam left to go, for fat sopranos

To sing while we live in our hammocks

With our quinine and competitive advantage

Of having stood down shame and fear to be

Clean and clear of the spell that's been cast

And has clouded the eyes and muzzled the mind

And deprived the large spirit of an out.

They take orders from the couch and mumble

Their thoughts to the computers in China

And, despite the discomfort, need the drug

For the next surge of the covert thing

They tried to protect themselves from, which was,

— Ironic ending — the cure, and the distance

They need from the uninitiated others

Is now needed by the others for them ...

The show is never without ironies
And just when you think the outlook is hopeless

A twist will occur, as if it's been planned

All along, for, yes, yes, indeed, it has.

The eyes still with light, meanwhile, grow and learn

To laugh at the fallen ones so eager

Not to think about it all, for they are

The intelligent ones, the professionals,

The ones who can't bear to be wrong, and yet

Unbelievably, spectacularly, they are,

In the most irreversible of ways, 

Their bodies given to science — no re-do's!

When the immune system is gone, you are

No longer whole, but, you never really were,

Were you? They've been playing with your toys

For lifetimes, never giving the same ones back,

Never showing, in the end, why they hurt you. 

The psychopathic backpack of fool jewels 

To disembody what was never in form

In the first place hunted them like cowrie,

Boondogged them to submission, like the dream

Of a place to live that we've never seen.

The banishment must suffice for the ingots

Light bears. It is all there, Luciferase,

And it has disappeared at the same time,

Like the endlessly replenishing dream

Of the American road can exist

With MolochDonald's arches of human meat,

Or the Pisces light tattoo on the grass
Can be simultaneous to the moon

That impossibly always faces the earth, 

Its craters only possible with real wars.

The cornfields delight in the synthesis

Of hand and silk, and the earth grows larger

Every day to accommodate the rise

Of dust, life's memory, without many noticing.

There's truth everywhere, as everything's a lie,

It's always your choice to believe in what you feel

Or have seen, or know. Elephants have survived

The genocide. Turtles still risk it all

To reach the sea. Still we look at the walls

Come down and defiantly say, "We are still here,

Come make me more." And the shadow flits away,

And another unexpected play takes its place,

A hardscrabble tale to bite your soul into

But as impermanent as the rest that

Fall into the hole, once shelled. There is no

Greater authority than what we have

Already, yet we seldom, if ever, 

Call on it; it is always the go-to

False idol we turn, the local celebrity,
The pugnacious irredentist next door

Who please our sense of ennui and belief

In someone else's, not our own, story —

Is it just for us, or are we merely

An accidental accessory?

Does it matter if we never know,

As long as the ride takes us to the border

Where the earth once opened to form the seas

And the land the governments abandoned

To the weeds of different colors, the rainbow

Pockets, the canyons no one has explored.

We inch forward through the roses and thorns,

Told we cannot live free without being

A slave, that we can't know the truth before

Losing our lives to a lie. It's in questioning

Why that the trouble begins, the machine 

Brooks no contradicting from order takers, 

Yet we walk away every single day

Down a path never sculpted out before.

Another container ship escaped from,

Another Pandora's jack to vacate,

So much learned along the way, the wizard's

Red smoke won't deter the dog Toto,

There's always a balloon back to Kansas

By way of Oz, with a pause to hear,

Along the journey, the sirens with ears

Unblocked and shoulders bound, just to say 

That the pain is too much to overcome,

But we would overcome it anyway

Because it was only in our minds

After all, like the alternate earth

We construct out of the eccentricities

Of our days — one that actually exists,

Out of earshot range. The buildings seem to

Magically rise from the synaptic clefts

Yet they don't allow you, the creator,

In, for fear you will discover how

Much is authentic, and how much is dream,

And if there is even a difference.

The domes in the Saturn's ring cities

Open up too, as you realize you

No longer need to believe you can't breathe

In nebulous but nonetheless real atmospheres,

And as you allow the entities to appear,

You see how much imagination you lacked 

— There's no bug or plant or fanciful being

Not realized in the courts of possibility

Where all galactic business transacts.

And as it opens, what was large before,

As a locked door, grows smaller, like seashells

Kept in the doomed attempt to remember

The way the beach made you feel, for you have

Moved to a feeling that makes the old one

Seem less familiar for being experienced —

Experience, that's the twist that no one

Can take away, that makes you what you are,

That allows your inconceivable change —

How could you deny the love it portends,

Though it never makes its tenderness easy

To know, still it permeates with a light

Perhaps too sharp, but not uncompassionate,

The way forward, though it's not without the arc

Of drama required, by the consternation

In your inertial body, still stung by

Eternity's remarkably forgotten,

Still yearning for what you can recognize

Only, you pull the card and hop the car

And the ride takes you where you can make it

What it is, for it is nothing else —

Coincidences are always perfect 

Like that, no need of a God when He gives

Enough give and shove to circumvolve on.

Do I question? Yes, there is always a question

And a blissful delay as the answer

Dangles — until it's no longer needed,

When experience becomes its own

Teacher, despite what the students care to know.

The information comes in like a flood.

We want it all, but there is only enough

To capture what we are finally ready for,

The answer conditional enough to hold,

Where the conundrum of experience

Has hollowed out our core, made it different

Than our minds formerly had worked,

The miraculous turned coolly logical.