i am poet,
a poet who is always trying to murder
the image of a man in a sweater
staring sadly out his window at his
muse, a grey still life
framed and presented to him
in his writing room
as he distractedly
thumbs through his collection
of adjectives
so this is the story of a black helicopter
gliding through airspace inaccessible
to ordinary air traffic. there is no
question, as it gently touches down
on the private pad on the roof of the
tower, that this is a holy moment.
a man with silver hair and a suit
so perfectly tailored,
that skin becomes blasphemy,
steps out and in one stride
is instantly engulfed in an escort
of suited and sunglassed silent devotion
he is ushered into the room reserved
for these moments,
where the acolytes await
his mouth never moves, yet words are
formed and delivered to minds where
they ring like bells of pure silver
washing away all but the message
one has worked hard to be here
one is thankful to be here
one can smell the polished wood
and rare leather that make up
the furniture and know that when
one is here,
one has arrived
this is the tower
each acolyte eagerly accepts
the invitation to imagine the words
as a story about themselves
the spell completed.
they open their eyes and find themselves
escorted to the elevators
so they can spread the gospel
the tower stands
slowly the message drifts down
initially light as a feather
a series of services are performed
in a series of chambers,
gathering new messengers
gaining weight as it falls
the tower must stand
ten floors down, the message
gains a solemn gravity
we can do so much to help you,
but can only really help you,
as long as the tower is strong,
can't help you if we are distracted
by all the shaking
we want to help you so much
help us help you
the tower must be defended
down the message flows
the closer it gets to the ground
the more substance it gains
the bell is chiming fear and submission
the feather now wafts
on thick vapors of threat and response
until the final version flows liquid
roots made to draw sustenance
now return poison
pulsing through dark veins
the tower is all that matters
everyone in the tower is a victim
of the cruel masters above them
everyone in the tower is a hero
sacrificing so much for others
everyone is working exactly
as the machine wants them to.
if this were a metaphor
i'd now reveal what you suspected all along
that there was no black helicopter
that everything that happened in the tower
was based on fear and there never was
a silver messenger who could be
blamed, for we all create
the same messenger in our minds,
and eagerly obey him
without needing him to exist.
the truth
is so much worse than that
we need that black helicopter to exist
so badly, that we will pay people,
pay them with blood and souls,
to ride around in helicopters
and frighten us into compliance
rather than face
our own complicity
in the cruel architecture
that holds us above the city.
i stare out my window
and tug at my sweater
to shake the feeling of chill
remind myself that i am warm
so many words about those
throbbing malevolent roots
many many words
and i must find them
no time to describe or
even notice
the stained ground
stretching out
from the house where
i sit writing my poems.