Lunch boxes and lipstick
are our mothers.
We live in formative melodies
composed by the organs
it takes to be awakened
to emollients and parabens.
As great as the meaning of fertilizer
to our victory over the animals,
so great is also its meaning
for a motif of flight risk.
We watch the elevator
fight the escalator
as a rite of passage in the arbitrary
arboretum of the shopping mall.
Food courts organize appetites
for deforestations weeping with shelf lives.
The cost of building a bridge
to the physical world
is vinyl siding
and butcher paper inclined to a life
of unidentifiable juice.
Archetypes fatten
until the fleshy parts are autopilots
reuniting red-eyes with runways
and kept-up appearances.
It’ll always be easier to culture mediums
than to think autonomous
products of the unconscious.
The wind informs the wing
and the coffee mug the hand.
Goodbye and thank you for having me.