On the Self-Immolating Species
By William Barnes
Pages of flesh. Inks of blood. Libraries of bodies
& bodies & bodies. Sacred membranes, shredded; innards,
strewn before the tectonic movement, swallowed into the Earth,
siphoned, set alight, circulated about the imperfect mechanism & spewed
out of its shriveling lungs. There is
no imaginative effort preceding the act of destruction.
The message is always final: there is to be no room made for interpretation
between the weaver and the fabric. Your imagination will be processed,
pulled, & assimilated into the fraying body as it likes.
Our words rage on in its belly
like a mass of scissors, needles & thread. Creation
denotes the highest act of transgression in this world: imagination.
Imagination says we will slash the gut, erupt with the language of light
& lick clean from our spool the shadow of the giant. Imagination says we will
unravel our wretched artifacts, relinquish ego to the crude whim of the loom,
& let suture the rift between our species & that which is real.
William Barnes enjoys subjugating consumer goods to his supermarket-induced monologues. Hey! Pinto beans! Can I get a pint ‘o beans? No! But you can get a can! I can get a can? I thought this was a box store! Into the basket you go.