West of Silicon Valley

A field of thistles, díscharging

                  concentric waves of negative

                                       theology, on a mountainside,

                  2010, May 23rd (is Whitsuntide),

would certainly

suffice as a source of the ever-obtainable not

enough sought

state of subtle shock

if he’d close

this computer

                  and walk up the summit road

                  until the sea’s in view. And maybe in

                  the southeast wind,

                  in broadcast waveform data therein,

                  microsystems stocks he has been

checking, clicking all day like an addict gambler, will

                                                                                      float up until

red numbers cross the black horizon

into green—two redtail hawks                                float up

                                                                                      on a thermal—

maybe even make some money while you’re up here—

ask why is each second so

                             charged with a feeling of living in freak

Götterdämmerung days

of live free radical notion or die into negative white on white sun pride

burning away, but equally

                             charged with utopian headlong longevity crowing—

why can’t I be steady?

Why is my only

balance built

of collisions and

cancelings-out of such sharp spike-of-chaos moods?

Field of thistles,

red and green.

Fields of dollars, thistles,

solidi and yen

and rand and rupees blowing off the curve of land.