Assemble (A Poem and Manifesto)

Roman Concrete
Supports a rustic ruined but living stone church atop a cliff.
Unabashedly climbs both sides of the canyon to uphold a crumbling crossing.
Spares a dance for the brunette bridesmaid who wins the war then drafts some more.
Trips to flee markets. Antiques. Provincial clothing. Histories. Tragedies. Comedies. Hurdy gurdy.
Lullaby tales of nymphs in the rivers and satyrs on the hills in the sightline. Roman Concrete
Is talking philosophy on the porch of a Spanish abode, sipping wine,
Eating salami, sourdough, berries, honey, dark chocolate.
Waving to neighbors who bicycle by. Trot feet through hot sand. And never quite retire
But time to paint the sunset. Set for sea. An Assemblage, A Wunderkammer.

Cement Forest
Is abandoned lands. The hour-long morning commute by freeway
Paved over flattened villages, Where Not bodies but synecdoche are hated proportional to proximity.
To the office with a pool table and drinks. We are Family Here, annotate
Conferences. Influencers. Activists. Humans Resources. Numbers not machines.
The fat voiceless cow who a hundred eyes surveil. Cement Forest
Is opaque campuses. Detached protocols. Deceptive strip malls.
Genome editing. Plastic evergreens. Hostile armrests over rainbow dyed bench rails.
Lawn sprinklers. The Colas. The glowing hyperstimulants. Idol fashion and design production.
Pictures of mountains lined with bumper rails loom between sacramental hospital beds.

Sedimentary Woods
Innumerate fanciful trails thrusting towards the pinnacle, one headdress. Vivid. Winding, arduous.
Optional views. High undergrowth. One exists external its pursuant, moves hastily by plate tectonics.
We try. The Just One More consumed without consummation. Potential, the insult. Wasted visions,
Forgotten toil, no, noted only by those most venerable canopies. Sink feet through castles every wave.
Fires sew scars on me to accumulate a tapestry like the embers they will become. Sedimentary Woods
Deserve no dishonor. Hero rivals, The challenges, Evoke the best, but are not.
The explorers with receipts. The flimsy planes. Lonely obsessions. Enablers and victims of sortition.
And an ode to the unknown soldier. Entrenched behind the lines and in the mud. On top of mines.
The Titans. Dying ants. Dying bumblebees. Suicidal skin cells. Successive usurpations.

Iron Rome
Can be heard. Hoplite formers engineer all day, for their foundation, doomed or not,
Play board games all night. With other sorts who use their garage as anything else.
Or do divert to clear the trail. Make the path. Own the plan. Water the plant. And see it vegetate.
Genomes. Editing. Sturdy planes and flimsy rockets. Multiplicities of prized feathers.
Although operating under a cloud veil, Fling or calling, Iron Rome
Can be seen. Intricate sky web wire bearing poles. Vending machines, Air conditioners,
Corner stores. In tight streets. Ivy-dense sideways-crawling shop-sign cluster-cacophony.
But spirited flows. Lively flocks. Gaudy correctly, not billboard jut slosh. Recent Ronin.
Instant feedback. Obsession on principle. Mafioso scientists. Or next closest things to emperors.