Fig.17-This Auger Against

Every auger has a centerbore to precut,
then shank-spiraled, carries chipwood up and out.
It is this upthread that carries, that drives itself.

The posthole digger’s two sets of handles
jolt and twist, will knock you and the boss,
you hold on, rib-bruised, and its
big eight-inch auger dropped
center down bores, relentless.
It threads itself through dirt towards devil
or China both, like Akhilles, dirt spilling
over itself at hole mouth, and both hands
to hold onto this Akhil.
The cigarette burns down and this sound of
perfect rage burns two fingers.

The most pure sound of God
lives in feedback. The sound
Akhil of perfect metal bends
and he obliterates all sound.
The Akhil hand, the Akhil roaming death
and this complete Akhilles of hate
unto twisting grain, slid down
from silo, augered through feed sheds,
spread out to thine bovine feed
and thus fed to chop.
This Akhilles shines so bright as to blind.

Thus He, Achilles grown greentall
and strong, grown twin bar-strung
and wild of carwreck, grown paired rage
of wire-strung feedback: sound, strung,
is created, and caught in the machine
which bore it, is folded again unto
its system, and thus, is born again as pure noise.
The purest noise of sound and sound
and most pure form of against. None so ever welcomed
the fate of hell and so fuckall of hell against

while his boots filling with blood, said

“I was born to this shore,
and knew neither Greece nor Helen,
and raised unto blood plain, birthed
only for young bones in blood-sand,
I yearn for nothing else than to
shine tenderfoot, ankle-wise and tear
through this now, or some other now
and tear God from Heaven if I could.”


--written Fall, 2000