CAN WE FIGHT OUR WAY OUT (a poem)

Saturday, May 10, 2025

can we fight our way out—
not with fists,
but through the listening mechanism,
more important than speech.

a critical syllabic dance:
kiki and bobo
across the string.

translating turbulence
into tone,
into tell,
into tensile grace.

the slap on my drum,
the velocity of a strike—
the targeting,
the repetition,
into a sequence,
a rhythm—
transmigrated
into the metaphysical.

are we clear?
tally ho.
right in front of you.
forget the instruments.
use the Force.

goose in the cockpit,
whispering—
obiwan and r2,
good friends.

maverisk is supersonic,
re-engaging,
dogfights over the silo.

we’re pretending
like we don’t have what it takes
to destroy each other—
and everybody else.

talk to me.
i can’t hear.
repeat.
pull up.

cougar on approach,
late in the day.

can you hear me?
hear me now?

break right.
now.

splash 2.
the sound of lock.
the missile message,
in its way.

it’s been real—
that moment before it hits—
that liminal,
slow motion…

i can hear it explode.

the sound of music—
treble crash,
cymbals reverberating.

Jung rolling in his grave,
and the projections,
narrative schemas,
and conscious claw—
compulsory state
in full swing.

campbell’s soup
spilled in the dirt,
heroes in the shit,
sacrificing—
not ascending,
just bleeding
while the story stays hungry.

the sound of sabers
out over the sea—
a plasma hymn
in echo tide.

ahsoka
in alt dimensions,
fighting her mentor
across time,
across self,
across silence.

a gladiator,
blood on the broadcast,
screaming—

are you not entertained?!

someone says wreck-gar.
this isn’t that difficult.

ok then. do it.

the Codex,
the Matrix,
the Violence—
ritual feedback
in cascading error.

Cascadia,
as it’s referenced,
is no longer a place—
but a referent for collapse.
An echo name
for what we failed to hold.

bluescreen of rest.

how do you feel now?