The Witch Doctor’s Chart

The agnostic diagnosis of the dilapidated planet reads as follows:

 

The mountain of progress is sinking in quicksand,

slow dancing with Destiny, its disinterested girlfriend,

who chews bubble gum as the foundering foundations

of the constipated continents liquefy around her legs

and proceed to swallow her legs as the hole around them

grows.  The elaborate architecture of artifice, a macabre

candelabra of obelisks, tilts and sways as the earth

beneath them shakes, its tummy grumbling terribly.

Minnows shiver in the drink, blue whales cower and scamper

like mice, seeking caves of coral, while blue fin tuna

drop out of school, hoping to elude the ever-looming 

nets, and Great white sharks choke on fiberglas boats,

saying, “Hey man, what kind of a hoax is this?” *

 

Meanwhile, the people who specialize in sleep

have a nice time ignoring everything.  I am one of them.

I’m happy to report that everything is hunky-dory

here in dream land, now that I have tranquilized

my nightmares with a fusillade of pills.  Maybe if

I pop enough of them I can live forever, or become

the automaton I was born to be, the machine

nature created me to turn into, an electronic servant

of calculating impulses manufactured by less literal

abstract members of the flesh who have yet to make

the shift, already obedient enough in their behavior 

not to require such radical adjustments in the name 

of modified life.  Where does love belong in this

pixellated picture?  That question is too good for anyone

to answer without turning in her brain for further study.

 

Let the octopi boil in the simmering sea as the fish

get fried by the scathing sun.  The wild animals that

remain to roam the land may survive long enough

to pose for film clips before poachers’ bullets 

find them.  Where we’re going, we won’t need our

brethren, the beasts:  those of us willing to turn

our backs on nature are bound for cybernetic glory,

a sterile paradise on earth as it is in heaven,

brought to you by fear of germs, and a disdain

for decay, a terrifying fear of death, overcome

by a humdinger of a deal with the devil, 

the self-same dream-dealer who got together

with God in the name of eliminating mistakes

and labored like a speedy slave

to make everything beautifully fake.

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