I got here by mistake. I don’t want in.
It was never in the deck. I refuse
as I would refuse gravity, if I could,
and the heat death and dark energy,
entropy, black holes, whatever goes wrong.
I’d chuck the body itself with all its
sacs and ducts and nodes, the weak links;
and the mind, I’d kick that clown in its ass
if I could.
Don’t think I can, Don’t think I can.
The little engine that couldn’t.
No wonder we de-rail, swerve into imbroglio.
As if the tracks ever lead anywhere
we want to go, like Acapulco,
the trees verdigris and swollen
with fruit. Here at the outpost
it’s one powdery foundation after another.
That’s how long it’s been. Powder,
that queer state between solid and gas.
All you can do to push another button
and remain permanently out.
Access, just another orifice with airs.