Hierarchies of Free


Sometimes I feel as if there’s
a vast guerilla war going on
for the mind of man. . .”
-James Douglas Morrison-


It takes all strokes
            to run an empire;
Not just cyberneticians
            but
Plenty of ignorance,
            folks.
Making peace with the technocracies
            that done us
Like ant consciousness;
Taylorized into deniable complicity
And weaponized, the human
            resources
Secured inside economic
            prison circuits like electricity. 

Only what sells
            becomes
Tantamount to reality itself,
            the
Atomization by individual
            wills
Imposed on the collective
Unconscious of their own
            perspective.
If not for the interpellation
            of eyes
Broadly caste, though with covert
            spin; were
We not hypnotized by the
Axioms of exploitation
            and endless war,
Thinking them irreducible,
            pillars
Of just the way that things are;
Would we still believe that total
            obedience to
Authority is a fair measure
            of goodness,
 The cornerstone of morality?

Could we, in knowing a panacea
            may do
One of two things, namely
            liberate
Or enslave; might we still
Find ourselves so
            supremely rational
As to expect that
            technology can do both?

That the media forms
            aren’t static;
Nor subsistent on
            consuming dreams?
Where everything is always
            Just
                       as it seems.
            According to the
Schismogenetic
            application of
Right versus left,
            or that old
Millenarian dialectic which
            prefigures
Discrete beginnings from ends;
Wherever the boundlessness of spirit
            gets
Pigeonholed by the grace of Pan
            optics,
Or the forces of dissent
            are branded
Red,
            hot topical elisions 
Subsuming the subject until
            dulled
Completely, reified
            in the sense
                         that
Circumcision was the first transhumanism;
Wherever gross inequality
            festers
By design, but
            much
Like how poetry
            is
To the unlettered,
            everything
Must have just turned out that way
            seemingly at random.

For the enforcement
            of order
Breeds a profitable
            chaos;
And where today there is war,
            tomorrow
This could surely vanish,
            if only we
Banished the mandate
            for peace.

Yet, we consider as much
            naïve, 
Or rather delusional
            platitudes, fit only
For perhaps a dead
            writer or musician;
A kind of tall poppy that
            the
Orthodoxies of the present
Divide
            in order to
Conquer a once
Revolutionary life.

            Copied down and
Endlessly repeated into
            a series of easily
Digestible bromides.