The morning before he did not have a good working TV
or pump sneakers or even the loose, pleated
black stonewashed Calvin Klein jeans everybody has.
The morning before he was an undistributed resource.
In between came a command from heaven that advised fire.
The fire came up out of the soles of his feet in a red vine
and grew clusters of red grapes in his groin and armpits
and pushed forward against the backs of his eyes.
They all wanted him now, the helicopter gods,
the strange race of people from the inside, the
anchorpeople.
They had never known, in their hollow glass
microreceptors,
that they needed him to lubricate their sandpaper
coupling.
The morning after they had left him with all of their
trade goods.
He watched on the clear little screen of a Sony
Watchman how they had become clean and remote again, all
talking about him, how flushed their experience of him
was.
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