The Process
Here I sit with mundane repetitive monotomes oozing
throughout my head. In one ear it goes
and swirls about my brain tissues,
arteries, capillaries,
up and down my spine,
then out the opposite ear
Information is knowledge
is power
is here and now.
Is in is out is pure white light
followed down a tunnel
to be yanked
out
at the last minute
to retell the miricle again
and again
on tabloid telemommunication.
This is monoculture crop.
This is the raising and falling of each new experiment.
Pavlov's drones herd like beetles
from one sector to the next,
the third and eighth and on down the jagged line.
The process,
the conditioning,
the militant,
the back,
the 4th.
And I sit surrounded in black, in white,
the daily data running out and in,
the daily dose of fluxes and grind.
I sit.
I stare.
I herd.
