Chaos

People on TikTok are teaching their dogs
to talk, buttons with sounds; colonies 
of plastic domes sprawling the floor 
so with a paw Jubilee can call for “Scritches!”
We don’t have time, we need automatic feeders, 
self-cleaning floors, automatic doors.
We’re on a mission to recreate Eden, 
infrastructure; metallic beasts 
swallowing continents. Jubilee 
just wants a pat. It’s so undignified 
thinks the cat that lives with Max, appalled, 
remembering those once abundant cozy laps,
the birth of the iPad dethroned the cat, 
who casually pads the “Mad!” button. 

Is this odder than phones that listen 
without our permission or mice 
from 3D printed wombs?
How long until furniture is sentient?
Will the rugs and mats soar out the door, 
infuriated by the endless processions 
of mass-produced shoes? How about the bees? 
Is that swarm around the lavender
a book club meeting? Did you hear the buzz?
Brenda bee from the maple tree down the lane
is accidently spilling chapter secrets.
Is this crazier than children mining mica,
crawling in the dirt like cockroaches,
drowsy eyed, the endless sift for sparkling specks
to ship out west to shimmer our cheeks? 
They call them Untouchables. Before the whole world 
became untouchable, before hugs could kill,
before we locked our doors and decreed 
the sick should die alone.

Surely it’s madness to poison crops for cash. 
Behold this pristine wheat, each stem 
soldier perfect, erect with leaves crisp to the side,
identical spikes saluting a dying sun. This loaf 
is mostly roundup. It’s madness 
to keep chickens in warehouses,
packed into bunkers like a doomsday cult.
We send food straight from ground to garbage heap,
skipping the eating, as though thinking doesn’t matter,
as though growing and throwing makes sense.

They say our brains are bigger now, 
would Paleo man applaud our trains, planes, 
and telecommunications? Surely, he would appreciate
the leather lounge, perhaps a house with locks
to stop wandering wolves. Even medicine 
is killing us, Big Pharma bosses collecting profits,
giddy like children trick-or-treating, skipping 
hand in hand as we all fall down.
Just like those children from 1665 
in woollen stockings, doublets, cloaks
singing ring-a-Rosie about the plague, 
too young to care, just swaying with laughter,
cheeks warm and glowing like fresh cooked scones.

Sometimes I play a game with my son
where all the Lego children escape 
across the living room floor, emancipated,
fleeing from adults and constant construction.
It’s flipping: meat from labs, animals talking,
hieroglyphs to alphabets now circling back
to humans sending silent symbols 
instead of words. Just hordes of narcissists 
entranced by our filtered reflections,
we forget each beam of light crossed galaxies 
to dapple this mason jar, there’s a precious secret 
in the dandelion’s drift; each puffball holds 
the architecture of love. Is it too late to save it?
We’re pouring a giant plastic drink 
that’s bulging the cheeks of mother Earth.
We will suffocate like ants.

How long until it a leader with codes reacts 
like the cat and slams down a hand. 
Will it all go nuclear? This madness,
I just want to know, when does it stop?