the bright lights of the low
airplane cuts thru the twisted
branches of the ancient oak
the gnarled oak, the lone
and silent oak, spared the blade
and spared the fervor
spared the celestial, the pure
the stainless & sparkling
the dauntless & darkling
the gleaming & glowering
triumphant & towering
the automated, metallic
the sterile & phallic
the anxious & super-
mundane, the elusive
corrupted & collusive
depleted & delusive
dreams of human minds
the doubtful credit of
dreamer's pride
the city streets
the perfect lines
the holy writ
of Mammonkind:
Dream it. Fund it. Clear it. Build it.
Dig, you bastard. Sweat, you dog.
Sow, you mutant. Reap, you god.
You've dreamed it, you've done it,
You've wagered and won it,
You've murdered our mother,
You've buried us all……
***
a sliver of moon hangs
in the bare branches of the ancient
oak, beyond all known and knowing.
see it, hear it, feel it:
the blade of an axe
swiftly falling—
Just the moon.
— Shane Ingan is from Indiana and lives in Detroit. He occupies no position of distinction whatsoever and is working on a big book of poetry about vanity.