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Poem

At the museums, we shudder
In vicarious delight
At the spectacle of the Aztecs:
A high culture founded on human sacrifice.
All the while not seeing -
Because we don't want to -
That the cult has never died;
Only the name of the god has changed.

Now we reverentially bow the knee
Within private cells
Before the votive flames
Of flickering cathode ray tube
In service to the great god TECH,
The Iron Form That Has No Face.

He sends the rain of bombs on foreign soils
That we may reap Renewed Economy,
Answering their madness with our own.
He sends the check, that our children may eat,
While others' learn to scream at the sound of planes.

Yes - We see The Need.
Yes - We understand The Reasons.

But we don't have to like it.
Our revulsion, at least, we can still call our own.

What the hell - this time, let's do the honors ourselves.
Let every mother, father, sister, brother, child and friend
Of tomorrow's "Disposable Resources"
Take a knife from the withered hand of one of TECH's
Decrepit four-star priests,
Plunge it deep and cut,
Rip our own hearts from our breasts
Bear them beating before us in our outstretched hands,
Marching en masse to his temple,
Staggering down his sanitized audience hall,
More and more crowding to the doors,
To lay the bleeding mound of them at his feet.

On that day,
Let the Heartless meet the Faceless and scream as One:
'IS THIS ENOUGH?"
'IS THIS ENOUGH?"

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