the poet narrates a visitation
i am poet, a poet who is always trying to murder the image of a man in a sweater staring sadly out his window at his muse, a grey still life framed and presented to him in his writing room as he distractedly thumbs through his collection of adjectives so this is the story of a black helicopter gliding through airspace inaccessible to ordinary air traffic. there is no question, as it gently touches down on the private pad on the roof of the tower, that this is a holy moment. a man with silver hair and a suit so perfectly tailored, that skin becomes blasphemy, steps out and in one stride is instantly engulfed in an escort of suited and sunglassed silent devotion he is ushered into the room reserved for these moments, where the acolytes await his mouth never moves, yet words are formed and delivered to minds where they ring like bells of pure silver washing away all but the message one has worked hard to be here one is thankful to be here one can smell the polished wood and rare leather that make up the furniture and know that when one is here, one has arrived this is the tower each acolyte eagerly accepts the invitation to imagine the words as a story about themselves the spell completed. they open their eyes and find themselves escorted to the elevators so they can spread the gospel the tower stands slowly the message drifts down initially light as a feather a series of services are performed in a series of chambers, gathering new messengers gaining weight as it falls the tower must stand ten floors down, the message gains a solemn gravity we can do so much to help you, but can only really help you, as long as the tower is strong, can't help you if we are distracted by all the shaking we want to help you so much help us help you the tower must be defended down the message flows the closer it gets to the ground the more substance it gains the bell is chiming fear and submission the feather now wafts on thick vapors of threat and response until the final version flows liquid roots made to draw sustenance now return poison pulsing through dark veins the tower is all that matters everyone in the tower is a victim of the cruel masters above them everyone in the tower is a hero sacrificing so much for others everyone is working exactly as the machine wants them to. if this were a metaphor i'd now reveal what you suspected all along that there was no black helicopter that everything that happened in the tower was based on fear and there never was a silver messenger who could be blamed, for we all create the same messenger in our minds, and eagerly obey him without needing him to exist. the truth is so much worse than that we need that black helicopter to exist so badly, that we will pay people, pay them with blood and souls, to ride around in helicopters and frighten us into compliance rather than face our own complicity in the cruel architecture that holds us above the city. i stare out my window and tug at my sweater to shake the feeling of chill remind myself that i am warm so many words about those throbbing malevolent roots many many words and i must find them no time to describe or even notice the stained ground stretching out from the house where i sit writing my poems.