[My conspiracy valentine]
My conspiracy valentine, my spectral bride
of rust & tractor grease, listen when I say that I was just
not made to be loved. I am feverish & rodeo-sick. I was just
not attentive to the fire circling around my cadre
of organs. They failed appropriately—a little system
made of meat & fear, a weak signal, a transistor
encountering steep resistance. I am but a ragbag
sack of radio bones. I spent my life wiley &
deciduous, varnishing my steel jackets & my gore
machines. I know little of the world outside
gear & mechanism, cog & tiny hammer. My excellence
knows itself as a method of articulating efficient violence.
When I stare at the sky, black & deepening, I see nothing
in it that would offer any solace, nothing that would tell
me the world is anything but a crippled dragon, a thing of smoke & fire.
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