dreamed of crazy eights back at the tin mill.
dreamed we still had a tin mill, but now
it’s cheaper to roll slabs in brazil, or
almost anywhere but here. head office
is in luxembourg, or mumbai, it’s called
amalgamation, the planetary consolidation
of steel. my hand still hurts from comicon,
the cosplay parade slowed down traffic,
i was in a mood, punched in my hazard
lights and started picking fights with
masked avengers, obese klingons. lucky
if i don’t get sued. and my real anger
wasn’t for them, it was for our blind
technocrats herding us off the stage
to join the neanderthals, leaving all
our strivings as a legacy for unborn
cyborgs. coal dust from the mines,
just diamonds under pressure, like
re-training for customer service or
hunting for scrap metal and copper
because the pension fund’s insolvent.
natural gas fires carve out a memorial
tattoo. the arc light’s prism still calls
to us like the song of the sirens.
Darrell Epp’s poetry has been published in over 100 magazines on 6 continents. His third collection, Sinners Dance, will be published in 2018.