the mountain

I wonder at the busyness of man.
We crawl like fire ants beneath the god of flame,
handing our blood to the masses like it was the very mist
off our punctuated words. The deflated tunnels within drape
themselves over our bones as if for a nap,
but they stay, and I forget. 

Their slumber settles into a glaze over our eyes,
and before long, appear to be hammocks.

I am slow to wake. For years have not looked twice
at the pillow for my weary back, whose ghost is given up,
the slung up boa constrictor, these rolled fishing nets,
this comfort I take in lack.

A doctor evaluates his patient not unlike a mechanic.
If I need a new engine, will I save money going to a mechanic?
Would he order me a new caffeine pill? Perhaps a day planner?
or would he sell me for parts?

The west was won on the backs of respect.
Must we all deathbed altar to the god of progress
after an oxen’s life, siphoning our oil,
the world on our shoulders?
How to wield this extra pair of legs?