Come, the mighty, slumbering under your hill no giants sleeping but goodwill inside of us a corporation’s a body still; a company is of people to turn them inside-out reveals as ever the wavering sea-frond steeples even the spray dissolved in peaches is a kind of love, speaks the dream of keep this safe: death is organic. death is ungloved. though the trees seem such unnatural greens, and lit at night and placed around us while we sleep as if instructed to keep us in sight and all the matter that’s the matter hulls in cities and the soil; the work we do is making everything worse yet nothing ever spoils though sleep, a bumbling Creole now mows across a billion screens the zeroes, the ones, the zeroes, the ones that all mean ‘I just want to go home’ every purchase has a rope leading up to it and a rope leading away. carries sweat, carries knots, carries a hill. who mined this. who made it. how are their lungs & eyes. the water. waste. offgas. freight. knots uncounted slipping hand over hand into the filth astern are a rosary-coloured tell and we know it struggling, but not very hard to make right the wrongs our fear our loneliness and causeless isolation do in his bulb of peace as in a cage philosophy devises pilgrims come to the carpet’s edge and say, and then turn their backs, You’ve inspired me. bishop has the actress on his talk show on YouTube she played ugly outside Delhi Bollywood blares that love and war are the romances for women, and the romances for men to keep us partial O Your Wholeness, she tells, nuzzling: all my darlings are stones – lamp-eyed with starvadoration – standing in platinum prongs like an Emmy – you wanna know where I keep my Oscar? in the loo adopting mantras, daughters, can’t give away no satisfaction harvesting the genetically modified seeds of compassion like Prada, the Algonquin, anti-fracking legislation seeds from Big Pharma, manna mamma, gazing moonfaced from the fence a god with an addiction it turns out, no kind of god at all they contemplate the third-world projects funded by her five-earth footprint ‘In every child I see myself ’ – ‘You ought to make the effort to remind yourself of them’ – o, Father, you are awful! she frolics in such floral aisles pharmacy in the dell in the dark World Bank the lights are left on all night but in deference to Earth Hour management have closed the blinds they & the cleaners only want to retire in time to spend time with the family meanwhile, alone. 2D or not 2D? I blame logonhorrhea behind the screen, the window where forgotten in the curve of the earth the arc of banished animals the only living creatures other in the universe eternity is here and we ignore it. if you’re lost in the bush and you’re looking for water don’t go uphill. everything real is modest and near and not being told all the water rushes all downhill, as water always will too much attention on too little life and stores as far as the eye can see like castles: take your envelopes, take your gold it’s as if none of our foodstuffs can die it’s as if neither can we. nor live – no time – as if the glossiness of things extends its personal guarantee or quarantine, for we will go on wanting that thing nameless & not marked down for we are little gods at heart, and cannot keep ourselves from reaching for the remote the bristle and thrum of buildings marks a creche of hollowed hills and under it all and through it all the song of Country sings us still Come back, singing Come back Come back to me. Cathoel Jorss
