7.1
How long for
a city’s carbon to
sink and ferment? How long
for the pumped bones of Neiman
Marcus and College Football
Saturdays to fetch rising lines
at the global market?
7.2
We are the red-faced
harbingers of heaven in
Connecticut, the prophets
of God’s chosen currency,
the insomniac masters of every
standardized franchise, every
optimized supply chain
We are the Great Pumping Culture’s
product and its subject,
the parthenogens of flashing
wreckage and carnival death,
gluttons for our own
grinning doom. We are
The Empire of Fun
7.3
Our future is unmanned,
our past unnamed, our
wandering eyes scour
every bone-dry crevice
We are crude and
refined. We eat Beluga
Caviar and we shit corn
Falling forever and
sometimes rising:
easy to carry two truths
on a sanguine Friday night
in Kether, easy to corner the
fantasy’s light and still
assure the present, “you’re everything”
Red-Tailed Hawk floating
across the grassy firmament,
hulking bear crouching
behind the felled tree,
our CEO uncle pumping
the pedal, screaming:
“WHAT MARVELOUS CONTENT”
7.4
We are watching undead children’s shows
and waiting for the next
American dinosaur to debase
us into crude product
We pine for pressure, for shooting up
the Earth’s dormant tributaries,
bursting through placental crust
Oh, how saccharine oxygen
is. “Just breathe”, how cloying
This planet could use a new
gas; movement and sparks and
the odometer crushing all
records, pulverizing
our dull circadia
Wanting to be the left headlight
on grandpa’s long Cadillac as
he breaks 90 towards the ocean,
the loose boards trembling and
the Ferris wheel shuddering as we
careen into the water whooping,
“Yeehaw!”
Passing lit squid, we bare
canine Dorito teeth, longing to see
bottom-sand, to know we are
deep as deep. We will rest
until we are sucked up
and pumped by the next
God-image
7.5
Death-rattle
amplified and shot
through wires in
the floor: tonight’s
broadcast, an opportunity,
IPOs and screwball econ
pulsing through the deep mycelium
“Sell your cars boys!
Crude is for the crudes!
Ad Astra Per Sanguinem!”.
And the crudes all cheer for
their brainchild Bodhisattvas,
their new stars of
the black-gold screen
In Kansas, a pregnant girl
in low-rise jeans shivers
in the rain, headphones
tucked into hoody, pumping
some boring noise to
block her dad’s ravings
from her worn ears
This is the humming
power of The Network,
the mind-eraser, the
activator of Manchurian
Fathers everywhere. There is
no ecstasy like that homespun
capital defense squad,
that cavalcade of
Steves and Toms and
Brians who will raise
their aggrieved chalices
high towards finance, who
will never wonder at
the emptiness
7.6
To pump is to know
the world’s forgotten
creatures have sworn
fealty to your commute
To pump is to be
“Death-Towards-Being”,
the premium ontology
The bird sings to
tell you, “my fossils
for you, Lord.”
The dog barks
to proclaim, “know me one
day by the speed of
my viscous ghost.”
The stripped Earth:
its hollow passages
repositories for the beamers
of yore, whose box
contours tickle the minds
of each Ford-monster owner, each
stocky salesman
You dream of your
own private highway,
cutting through and rising over
the planet, the planet,
lined with booming speakers and guarded
by the best private contractors
You dream of Billy Joel, live to yourself.
As you fly through the
next passage – Come In
Virginia – the hordes begin
to weigh on the cavern walls.
Inhuman bellowing, demands
demands demands, your sweat
running down like leaking gas
and you awaken. Rumbling
escape; vision of
divorce; panting
dog; country club's
final defense. The alarm begins
its imperial morning
crusade
7.7
Freedom is pumping
through the tunnels
of my handshake
arms, coursing and
glowing to the
thrust of Toby
Keith’s millenarian
injunction. Freedom is
veiled, freedom is
transparent, freedom is
made from the crossed
signals of libido
rising, libido
flooring it
How I love to set
the dollar bills
across the table,
how I love to watch
the opaque trembling
of the begging, the
waiting. I will leave
the restaurant high,
relishing the prostrate
sweating smiles of the
toiling bugs, who were born
to prepare and scrape my
dishes, who will one day
be sunken and pumped themselves
I am history’s most
private subject. You
can find me on the
the seventh and
only floor of the world’s
highest spire, where
heaven meets the driver’s seat
What does a resource do?
Does it line the
pockets of my kingly
son? Does it moisten
the skin of my perfect
daughter? Does it bring
me closer to
God? A resource is a
vessel for my ascendance
A resource is my personal
Shangri-La, the ship of
my freedom, my right to clock
the world’s burnt husk and demand,
“What about it, pussy?”
AR Kinsella is a poet, short story writer, conceptual writer, and sound-artist currently living in Helena, MT. When he isn't trying to translate strange and unwieldy ideas into fiction, he likes to use ignored and overlooked materials/content to generate poetry and sound. He recently received his MFA from The School of The Art Institute of Chicago, and is looking forward to never paying back his evil student debt.
