All around the campfire.
I love when you smudge out-of-doors, when you burn a handheld forest, and the birds come, hearing the smoke.
The scent itself has no sound, unless it joins crackles, hisses, exhales of jailed steam.
Unlike the coprophagic electioneers who wash it all down with the laughably loud stilled waters of indolent governance, promising us but feeding them: Mangia mangia.
They smell, reek, from every direction but toward the deep pockets above. They screech a national flatulence. They await the masterful fingering of their poppeteers.
Oh but to (un)plug and mute them.
What must we smudge in order to rid ourselves of their oligarchic breath, their executive pyramids moated with LEOs, mane-stroked lions performing the ars gratia artis of their capital law?
Their sharia, for the indebted.
Hymning circular poetics of distraction, they, speaking-in-tongue talking heads of the illuminated sect, the downloadable class, the mobile mouthpieces, the nightly preachers. The anchoring which a mass, née propagandist media heaves upon us, elucidating them, stunning us.
Such screens, forest-phalanx chorals for state(ly) obedience. The opera of operative.
What must we burn? What must we smudge to summon the buzzards? What is the sound?
Is it playing dirty if everyone cackles, clucks, and pecks manure for dusted seed, having been collectively pushed into the mud? Turn on the shitstorm and dine beneath applause.
Must we burn?