the secret life of meat

for Adam Aitken

the political system as miracle cure
collapses into the harbour,
ripples tracked by satellite
caress america as we turn over in our sleep.
genomes deciphered this morning
don't evince a cure for cancer this afternoon,
asking if art's job is to complicate
what science would simplify as
air new zealand 747s rise out of mascot
like a mirror image of the dollar,
backpackers waving nostalgically
at a full scale mock up of the tourist brochure.
what's history's place in all this?
your motivations tire of waiting
for the next magic bullet
& send you out for a walk,
news crews camped outside cabramatta
& lakemba, boilerplate tragedy
& the neighbours' pat reactions
are what shifts advertising,
the problems of the self reduced to
what's in it for me, what can we screw
out of you, & high overhead, vapour trails,
ephemera of the future,
each package guided by avionics
to destinations unknown,
the notion of work constantly revised
by the disconsolations of philosophy.
seven o'clock eastern summer time.
the day dissipating like dreams of a big finish.

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ted@magicdog.com -- 21 December 2000