thought dream 012709

The Dark Knight driven backwards
into a field of poppies. A tractor.
A herd of sheep. The wind shrieks

out of caves and grottoes, demanding
recompense for all the damage. Your
Batmobile will do you no good here.

The men still hunt rabbits and cook
them in garlic. The 22,000 variations
of the Virgin Mary will not hear

your cry for help, your loneliness,
your bat signal. Gotham will go down
into the abyss, we all know that.

No billionaire capitalist in a rubber
suit can stop us from eviscerating
ourselves. It's the field of poppies

and the dirt road covered in paper-
thin garlic skins that you should fear.
The ten-thousand year-old demon

of the ordinary that awaits you.