from Monoculture
image of farmhouse
fire warning grass
unrelenting blue sky
small child
overalls
dirty
bolls of cotton —a sort of fruit, woven and worn on
the skin, a kind of money—
cotton futures
rolling across
ticker tape
country road
or the dabbled wet of mother’s red shirt,
the check wasn’t enough, the work was
country road
or the dabbled wet of mother’s red shirt,
the check wasn’t enough, the work was
somehow not enough, but, do you think, we can,
do you, can, could you, might, please,
she opens her wallet she takes out a bill
she hands it to father he goes to the store he
brings home more flour she makes a meal of it
do you, can, could you, might, please,
she opens her wallet she takes out a bill
she hands it to father he goes to the store he
brings home more flour she makes a meal of it
dollar meals
cottoning up our throats
3/4 lb of cotton in each lb of the U.S. dollar
—cotton, holding the world reserve
currency, preserved so carefully, so hoardfully, so—
we gather
it in piles
we count
it tenderly
we construct great
edifices to house it
we live lives
according to
we hone our skills
in the collection of
we dole out worth
according to
we pray to
believe in it
we caress its
slight textures
we pray to it
we construct great
houses to edifice it
we pray to
we smell it on
our fingers
we can smell it
over there
we move toward
it always
like plants we
bend to it
like subjects we
bend
we lie down
before it
we lay down
before it
we lay everyone
down before it
we prey to
we believe in
it
we house great
edifices to construct it
we go down
into the flatness
of it
we edifice
we believe
we supine
we sup—
it in piles
we count
it tenderly
we construct great
edifices to house it
we live lives
according to
we hone our skills
in the collection of
we dole out worth
according to
we pray to
believe in it
we caress its
slight textures
we pray to it
we construct great
houses to edifice it
we pray to
we smell it on
our fingers
we can smell it
over there
we move toward
it always
like plants we
bend to it
like subjects we
bend
we lie down
before it
we lay down
before it
we lay everyone
down before it
we prey to
we believe in
it
we house great
edifices to construct it
we go down
into the flatness
of it
we edifice
we believe
we supine
we sup—
—at the store
finding the wallet
peeling open your family
rubbing up against your
president
at the store
isn’t this the perfect shirt,
look at this scarf,
look at this blouse,
look at this tie,
look at this coat,
isn’t this the perfect,
look at those pants,
look at
at the store taking your
labor out of your wallet
pride in the crispness
of the bills exchanging
cotton for cotton—
*
low diversity in space
high-yield efficiency
and high returns on investment
low diversity in space
high-yield efficiency
and high returns on investment
covering 2.5% of the tillable earth
—lending such stability to the
market, its futures, a kind of money—
a fruit
to be eaten
by the eyes
and in such great rows
such great quantity
no longer can be beheld
or only in one’s head
or in the sublimity of a spreadsheet
*
in
the distance, a man
body flexing in labor
standing so far from the combine
he looks nearly of size with it
they’re plants, they’re
people, they’re planted
potted ones
dutifully pruned
new growth cut back
“to be fucked
in the fruits
of some labor”
and in deep
debt to the sun
or when mother, thin on money, accepts
the underthetable notajob cleaning
the trailers housing undocumented
immigrants (yes, like the one where your
cousins lived, because how else could she know,)
who work underthetable on those fields
bodies flexing in labor and everything
coated in what’s left behind when
the sweat dries up
thin sales thin
fields thin workers
seasons continually thinning and th
and though mother, thin,
on money, needs it,
you can’t help but notice
that her stack of dollars
is the tallest for the least
or to be fucked by the labor of some fruit
or to be fucked by some cheaper
cotton somewhere another field
lost to suburban sprawlNEW MARKET
DEVELOPMENT MOVING AHEAD OF
SCHEDULEto go back into that field
those trailers rotting
monuments to extraction’s
extraction they’ll never
be cleaned of it
humans rooted to the now-
untillable
earth
“no layoff
from this”
history
their people there planted
for “to plant is also
to entomb”
body flexing in labor
standing so far from the combine
he looks nearly of size with it
they’re plants, they’re
people, they’re planted
potted ones
dutifully pruned
new growth cut back
“to be fucked
in the fruits
of some labor”
and in deep
debt to the sun
or when mother, thin on money, accepts
the underthetable notajob cleaning
the trailers housing undocumented
immigrants (yes, like the one where your
cousins lived, because how else could she know,)
who work underthetable on those fields
bodies flexing in labor and everything
coated in what’s left behind when
the sweat dries up
thin sales thin
fields thin workers
seasons continually thinning and th
and though mother, thin,
on money, needs it,
you can’t help but notice
that her stack of dollars
is the tallest for the least
or to be fucked by the labor of some fruit
or to be fucked by some cheaper
cotton somewhere another field
lost to suburban sprawlNEW MARKET
DEVELOPMENT MOVING AHEAD OF
SCHEDULEto go back into that field
those trailers rotting
monuments to extraction’s
extraction they’ll never
be cleaned of it
humans rooted to the now-
untillable
earth
“no layoff
from this”
history
their people there planted
for “to plant is also
to entomb”
