Thought I had lost this, but found it among old papers. I wrote it a long long time ago. Another lifetime it seems like. It was originally a cut-up poem but I kept messing with it.
digits
the fingers are mounting up
for an offensive against the mutinous toes
in alleys where the dead were dragged
the fingers look like cabbages
lined up for harvesting
under the mouths of exploited technologies
the fingers will lick the toes
after streaming chlorophyll
onto them: quality obsessed costumers
the fingers are colored by different rays of yellow
as bones bleed onto pages of returns on stockholder's equity
the fingers are cutting themselves off with razors and staring
with great commercial success
the fingers are tripping over regions where the sky
crunches beneath the feet of giants
and sandwiches barbed with prongs
the fingers scratch away at patches of dirt over sores
in a win-win solution of trade channels
draining the world of imagination
where skulls have been left out to dry in the clouds
the fingers are swelling 20% a year in sales
while the company balloons are left
scattered over peach fuzz and cactus
prickly joints crack and clatter
over cut out teeth
-Joseph Owen
