Blood-White Noise

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The modern shrug of static above the night highway,
the trees hiding trees to the satellite’s dismay,
the skin scarred carefully by dead Cornish miners
while a man carries logs past iron mountain diners.

A false-bottom briefcase for smuggling fireworks
across the rigid borders marred with snow,
a Finnish deer god with marble antlers,
and a hidden missile grain-silo.

The dead dogs and the sarcastic tongues
devour the young with the bar-radio’s hum.
The well-armed priests hunt the unarmed birds
with eyes on the quickest and their blinds undisturbed.

So the buck stops here ‘cause it was hit by a van,
the body stops sliding where the ice lets it land,
and whose blood is this- fortnight of a smear-
the gambling young teenager sipping cheap beer?

No, come here, crouch close, and see this red line:
Whose blood is this?
Whose blood is this, so close to the pines?