it’s not anger really not some lingering resentment
burning like late summer about being 17
fatherless at the hand of some Descartesian engine
bloody / invisible / pristine

not some generational sulk since our expectations were fair
being thrust upon us between small cartons of near expired
strawberry milk under a misdrawn map & outmoded machina-thinking

perpetuation being the aim not
the drive to perfection

stability at the tip necessitates stagnation

at the base & we are balls deep in death but
before this all gets too phallic remember
the problem wasn’t that the path was too hard

but that the directions were lousy
& by the time we figured out our guides
were blind we were more than halfway
to this exact spot on a faulty map

& our only option was to enter the wilderness

or die in sour footprints