We saw a fevered woman try to sweat it out, in her own bed,
pollen from bees feet drifting through her shutters.
It didn't take long before the medics came to stop it.
Her sides hardened to walls, her joints to gears,
her eyes to ceiling, her womb- a hallway entrance
and her heart- taken over by a pump.
With an apparent absence of fever, still a liquid hot as greed
twists through her like a rapists sperm and
this perceived willingness by her, aided by lack of restraints.
No, a mechanistic building cannot move itself from foundation.
Plainly, a building cannot move itself.
Heroically, her rescuers -- mostly men, and disclaimed women
who broke her glass-ceiling - lead the march, calling in
Blue Crosses, a crusading army of middlemen with Blue Shields.
Free-market democracy erects a fence between life and death
with a question: (slavery and indentured servitude)
or (the freedom to die).
Medications dust her with tonic that glitters in the stratosphere
of corporate propaganda. Crowd pleasing -- at least
it makes her look pretty, or else no one would enter.
Togged-out with make-up, gloss and shadow
the plastiphonics embellish her luster regardless of her
changed being from human, to bordered citizen,
to boarded-up and condemned.
Doctors go on vacation. Nurses contract narcolepsy.
Saddle the horses; we'll drag in the judges on her behalf.
Their gavels ready for beating, but corporate lobbyists
have found the loopholes. Technically, she's no longer
a woman but, let's not go as far as to call her the means.
We've lost her! Who are we talking about here?
Heroes grab the bullhorn and talk about our insurance.
With all our talk about humanity, we can't seem to find her--
the human being.
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