Poem for Eli Whitney (Ford’s Lament)

The looms

so spread-eagle splayed,

fine harp, the weaver of hymns

God is listening

the cotton gin is marching

and we follow

 

Feral engines,

artificial hearts of pure-bred fantasy

beat deep in the chest

where so thoroughly buried,

so gently molested,

enjoy a subtle bending

times are harder

so we follow

 

Beacon bulbs of

light in the midnight lonely streets

flicker back and forth,

whir quietly in the mind and

shine careful beams upon the paths

the working days are darker

so we follow (in the light)

 

Deft drifter’s dollars

never pinned before to

the swelling breast of newborn markets

new drugs, the pusher’s contact high

we are buying

the makers are marching

and we follow

 

Cathedral manufactories

fuming spires and manic, insomniac, crazy!

industrial deity whose

bones have cast off flesh

we are watching

the cotton gin is blooming

and we are so content

to follow