This brick for that wall, this hammer for that nail—bang out… This door for “No Exit,” this cage for that field: Prosthetics… My noose for your halo, my water for your gun—drink up… My words for your time, my air for your lungs: Prosthetics… A clock for your hands, a cause for your death—good luck. A gold medal for your effort, a penny for your thoughts: Prosthetics…
Dislodge the memory from what’s next, now amputate word from thought like endangered egg from nest. Lest I forget the incubation period necessary to comprehend the underlying text. So I tattooed “Do Not Resuscitate” on my chest. My hospital bed is a lawn of switchblades, hence I’m able to sever any knots in these chain-link vein kinks. Barbed-wire DNA strands span the lengths of their own spiral staircases which can open or shut case file my nails under crescent clippings. Can opener is more found out than instep-off sideline, upstanding-room only-child prodigy. Giant peach pitfall-guy—freelance free landscape, goat herd sheepishly closet exoskeleton. Spun web log cabin republican neocon-servative serving only professional criminals during confessionals. Ante up: “State of the Art” or “Taste of Threat”? Cloning a sci-fi cyclone unfurled. I fingered through all the catalogues, placed my order for a new world but the end is getting younger so I moonlight as sunbeams and when time comes to edit my sacrifice I’ll carousel ‘round the bite-sized frames of [c]hrist perched on perjury. Hoisted above the night sky stuffed with stars, screen-save the anointed aesthetically annoying computer cursors: Prosthetics… Prospects, hard to digest the toxin’s progress. The next Bush doctrine concocting plots to keep us from putting stock in our options. Live stock in shock, name-branded cattle. Dismantle candid discussion panel with locked-lipped topics ranging from health to wealth to pickpockets only to after the fact sever the hand with no plan to pro- or retroactively stop it. Redistribution of wealth? That’s my synopsis, but explaining that to a capitalist on the precipice of power is pointless practice for “Live in concert,” like preaching to the choir or lecturing a lamppost in broad daylight on poor posture…
This automaton for that autonomy, this voice for your silence—speak up. Their dollar for our lives, this imposter for the genuine: Prosthetics… This hammer for that nail—bang out… My water for your gun—drink up… A cause for your death—good luck… A penny for your thoughts: Prosthetics…
