Poem: Inside Metal

This poem originally appeared in Blast Furnace Review.

It's a criticism of car culture.

Enjoy.

Owl

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Inside Metal

it is hard not to hustle
the wheel over the continents
it has shaped. the land itself
wears a corset of scars.

a mountain isn’t so great anymore,
just another back to ride.
deserts that once schooled prophets
gleam like casino jaunts.

inside metal, speed is a game.
you cruise on the burning blood
of jungles and tundras.
a large herd of muskox.
the sea.

you fidget
with dials and buttons
like a fetus in a robot’s womb.
under savage pistons,
the machine can feel you kick.

inside metal,
you never want to sweat again,
or canter a horse.
you can’t imagine
sitting on a ziggurat,
cross-legged under Draco.

your life waits before you,
laid out on crushed stone.
in a long dark tunnel
unheard victims curse obscene
in reflective glares.




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