life in a rented flat

around me the shamans of plastic and steel
whirl and churn like demented spirits
feeding
through cords and pipes and plugs
where thoughts no longer echo
between sterile walls that mock
what life there is inside
untended, unheard, unloved

the screen is trivial, and hungry
to anathematize
to anesthetize
and repackage the world
for our convenience
to make it easier to swallow
easier
to blunt the claws
and break the teeth
of the fox in the cloak
that will rip and free
if left unchecked
the visceral organs
of disemboweled thought

to wash is an endless quest
to be rid of the world
and every week
we attend its sermon
for ablutions from sweat
and blood and earth
and any trace of life lived
outside and above
the quest for the clean
without love or depth
the quest for the surfaces
sparkling
yet unblessed

a column in the corner
frigid and icy
has signaled an end to the hunt
an end of the scent, the kill, the senses
and the vast fecund expanses
the origin of myths and art
and heroic adrenaline trances
now lost
in hypoborean boxes
the sustenance that is bought
in frozen neat packages
the sustenance uncatchable
uncaught

the life torn from flesh
sucked from bone
ripped from limbs
killed and bloodied and shorn
is now categorized and numbered
in percentage form
stored in capsules sealed in jars
in small ordered rows
sitting on dry shelves
the energy of the earth
fits into fingers
and washes down the throat
with a sip of water
there to my right
just next to my window
by the shoes

the mighty rhythmic chant
that swells in the breast of life
the hidden sonic patterns
that merge earth and man
the hands and the sweat
that create the vibrations
that resonate and transcend
individuated existence
and remind us
of the unison of universal essence
is now digitized and channeled
available at a touch
of the languid finger
on the end of an uncalloused hand
seeking to fill the silence
of boredom and dissonance
offering an unfinal, flacid stand

the hearth and the fire
that flickers and flames
and licks and climbs up above
around which we sat
and shared and told stories
where heroes grew strong
and histories grew proud
those flames that were sacred ceremonies
for the transmutations of energy
from one solemn being to another
when the hunt and feast transformed
the incarnate masses
into the worship of life
still sanguine, still strong, still massive
...is now a blue flame
boiling water in a pot
tended to by a solitary man
who will eat alone
having forgotten the holy mystery
of what down his throat is thrown

a touch and a glance
the contact
of hand on hand
skin on skin
the comfort of others
the companionship of fellow man
is now trapped in a universe
of 0's and 1's
that simulates the friendships
and camaraderie and fellowship
but leaves our poor nerves
and our flesh and our senses
cold and in contact only
with lifeless keys
and inanimate pretences

the breeze that once swept
through the mountains and the forests
and over deserts and oceans
through our hair and our faces
now blows from metal and plastic cages
powered by electron demons
whirring in corners
without offering cool comfort
or any natural graces

and in this rented room
abuzz with captured
and channeled energy
with life that is not life
I am the only thing
that feels dead.