by Mike Crumplar
It shows itself as immanent
in the city skyline. The glittering lights
of Manhattan from the Williamsburg Bridge
—there must be as many of them as
there are Wikipedia pages—
are cells of discrete desire. It is, they are—
the result of endless self-transformation
of raw Earth, picked up by its own bootstraps.
You, too, are included. You may not think so
but you are just as at home in New York
as anywhere. Your gaze is none other than
its own soul-searching. You are rolling tonight;
material reactions close a spiritual gap.
Weltgeist to brick and mortar (and all the rest)—
—to reflected light and to the optical nerves—
straight to the pineal gland.
You are merged with it to maximize efficiency
like it was a part of a cosmic corporate takeover.
You, you spectacular cell, are strolling
down the electric synapses of a Great Brain.