retrograde pyrotechnics

retrograde pyrotechnics

show water’s futility

fighting fires alone

as we watch sequentially

sparking explosions

evince our spatial expectations,

high high away,

beyond the purple sky’s borders

where a man strapped to

helium balloons, sipping a pint,

begins to freeze to death,

afraid of cutting ties

with his creations;

he drinks, frantic,

knowing this pint may

be his last, no more cheers,

the Germans say Prost

in reverse, bitter about

the Hindenburg’s demise;

the severed foot of a man

bungee jumping from a London

bridge with a tow rope

floats down the icy waterway

to the feet of a crying child,

neglected by the things he

runs from.

We select ourselves

into categories forming

Paleolithic root systems

in cyberspace,

our identities cloaked

beneath ciphers and datasets;

we fry servers atop the hoods

of discarded BMWs, leaping

for mankind, though

man is not kind,

nor an anagram for anything.

We shuffle the letters,

post them on signboards

at busy intersections and

say:

-look-

-see-

-progress-

have you noticed?

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retrograde pyrotechnics

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