Terry Trowbridge
Conversions Too Late
and it's quiet in the city, too quiet, except for the largest vans and convertibles, and these are safely filed under "European"
—John Ashbery, The Last Romantic
—John Ashbery, The Last Romantic
Combustion engines betray us.
Their carbon paradox hums in idle driveways.
An uncountable number of shuddering explosions
inside spark plugs, separate fossils from fuels.
Before exiting driveways, engines have turned over
the same number of times as the wind has rippled the leaves of shrubs and trees.
Each vegetable breath already is accounted for.
Their carbon paradox hums in idle driveways.
An uncountable number of shuddering explosions
inside spark plugs, separate fossils from fuels.
Before exiting driveways, engines have turned over
the same number of times as the wind has rippled the leaves of shrubs and trees.
Each vegetable breath already is accounted for.
For what do we spend the gasps of trees?
For sustenance. To reach jobs at the end of commuter branches.
To carry more groceries than our arms can fit.
For friendship. For privacy. To vacation.
On behalf of an economy that etched a grid into the ground,
suffused it with transiting vaporizers,
imposed itself, through cars, on the nebulous bottles of globules
at the ends of bronchioles.
For sustenance. To reach jobs at the end of commuter branches.
To carry more groceries than our arms can fit.
For friendship. For privacy. To vacation.
On behalf of an economy that etched a grid into the ground,
suffused it with transiting vaporizers,
imposed itself, through cars, on the nebulous bottles of globules
at the ends of bronchioles.
Our best intentions to curb the stinking asthmatic wheels with regulations
were, at best,
false flags flown in the economy’s media hungry eyes.
Profit motives reigned, with no regard for the deaths they would cause.
You are dying, my friend, because of this monster.
Those of us who were suspicious were told we were neurotic,
or, at best,
worse than neurotic. Foolish. Ignorant.
And we, in turn, demanded only that the word "science" be invoked
over and over. We turned over so many odometers
that we began to imagine artificial intelligences to count the kilometers.
Still, we did not question the programmers of those intelligences,
or their contemporaries among us.
Because of their ethics, and ours,
you will die.
were, at best,
false flags flown in the economy’s media hungry eyes.
Profit motives reigned, with no regard for the deaths they would cause.
You are dying, my friend, because of this monster.
Those of us who were suspicious were told we were neurotic,
or, at best,
worse than neurotic. Foolish. Ignorant.
And we, in turn, demanded only that the word "science" be invoked
over and over. We turned over so many odometers
that we began to imagine artificial intelligences to count the kilometers.
Still, we did not question the programmers of those intelligences,
or their contemporaries among us.
Because of their ethics, and ours,
you will die.
