Mapping the Territory

The pen slides along the fine,

straight, edge, of the ruler.

Connecting point A to point B

Dash dot dash dot dash

A few drops of ink on the paper:

A border, with all that that implies

the blood required, multiplies.

a million times a million times a million

until someone else draws a new line

and it can begin again.

That's how we know where to put the fence

the wall, the razor wire and cameras,

the dogs and guns and motion detectors.

The denuded strip called:

No man's land.

Meanwhile, a little closer to home,

I draw the graceful arcs and swoops
of a new suburban street.

The pie-shaped wedges
at the end of the cul-de-sacs,

the proud boulevards connecting
the new mall with the old mall

shape up on the map.

Here's the Walmart.

There's the pocket park.

And the business park.

And the industrial park.

We like parks.

And parking and shopping,

(lots of parking and shopping)

So what? What's wrong with that?

People have to live don't they?

And that means houses and schools
and stores and offices.

Places to sleep and work and play.
Eat and fuck and shit and die...

and a cozy spot to watch TV.

Or whatever. You know?

So here's the lines on the map

where the orchards used to be.

We'll have lawns instead of pastures,

with rivers and lakes of asphalt.

So neat, so clean, so.... orderly.

Our little chunk of paradise

complete with tasteful gates.

The sharp logic of a line:

It's the edge of properties,

territories, nations, knives.

They all cut.

And the world bleeds.