Benjamin Krusling
political transformation
the time of useful consciousness was conceived
by a nazi doctor , or ,
he oversaw the institute . like us , he lived
in the middle of history , then the United States ,
which we demand to know more about !
with the sustained energy of new phones or athletes .
in space , time is short , all phones go . time rushes
in from the future , the scene of my mother , in budget hospice ,
the intensified nazification of doctors , the klanification
of common sense . klanning is one method of securing power
in an unstable situation—I’m listening to veeze
while I hold my braids and blow into fossil fuels
in the half-dome of a small grill . I hope the fires don’t touch
my face . the struggle began when I spilled
some of my attachment to self-preservation .
oh I don’t , I should spend time
getting free from myself , who gets everyone to stay , under nuclear pressure ,
all the time , people stay
and I scream , and I leave
washington STOP and THINK !
your dance partner is DEATH
maybe something stopped working ?? looking out at another human being
maybe something decayed . . . ?
in the blue sun where breathing stops where babies expire on dead technology
the country I live in incubates death
breathes on the tinder with great big gasps
huge fucking gasps called subsidies , bribes
aagggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
real big lungs
aghhhhhhh
real big deaths
but if the state is god there’s nothing they could do
being serious—a force is working through them and it’s great
it’s bigger than money , that’s tired , bigger than black than muslim
when death is your WAY , they’ve discovered , life is so much sweeter
every person eviscerated by shrapnel or melted by phosphorus
another inch in the heel of their pleasers , on the way to God the father
maybe I got dropped on my head ?? on the ground taking in the sky
maybe , no no—maybe I haven’t thought enough
my knowledge is not systemic enough
maybe no knowledge thought stopped working looking decaying . . .
in some stupid version of one person’s anger
but my anger has rockets !
let my poem be a rocket in a bureaucrat’s cold green face
I keep the dead in my head like knives in a block