The Advance

Jordan:

The Advance


I.
Gallops on a high arched hill
the Troupe’s nigh this morning.
Every man knows his end,
yet fate, he may not rescind.
The wizen willed warrior
Hardens his hide for the fight at hand.
II.
Expel your fears, your burdens,
so that you’re free to kill,
to wound for your mother soil,
for the dirt that’s worth less than you think.
Less, maybe, than the nameless, homeless
flesh that receives your murder tool,
in a most inconvenient place.
III.
Not for you, no,
not inconvenient, the loss
nothing more than the hassle
of having to wipe another man’s life
from your state- issued steel toes.
IV
Another man’s smile set on your steel toes,
You, the perpetrator,
the inciter of spatial lapse,
synapse- space betwixt matter,
space that spans the years,
within which the victim changed in a story of
Myriad mile metamorphoses,
millions of miles,
of miles unmeasured,
moved, yet minute
there to inform you of that contained
betwixt brain flesh and flesh,
axon and dendrite,
number and number in a fucked up
mind puzzle,
which cannot be solved by glancing at your neighbor’s
sheet, screen, Face.
V
Face,
aggregate of synaptic space
the enemy visage that looks at you from your
State-issued steel toe mess,
Face, face, fucking face it-
you know not,
what more than a smileless neural heap,
a half-wit heathen in a sick grenadine charade?
What more than
your only inconvenience?