164. naked, norsing, rutherford exposes (cont.)

the duck was unfinished, a mountain of mucus
waiting for something, a spark or how-to book — 
heavy dave had a brain still about him,
and set on working a way to empower it

with a fresh cave of bodies to draw on
the slaves started plugging bodies at random — 
that was a mess, but heavy dave’s guess
was to turn up the wheeling to twice as fast

soon all the static that slopped out the tube
was changing the *stuff* from just a goop — 
first to a frog, a bear, a gorilla,
a beetle, a sheep, a cap, an umbrella

the stuff was un-forming, forming, in fluxus,
so fast that the slaves couldn’t inform the
brain that was all that was left of the dave
as it computed the course they should take

the levers, the gears, the wheels, and the blades,
each of them changed the end product they made — 
heavy dave motioned to super slave shorty
to turn the last dial to one hundred forty

at last, as if molded from primeval mud
arose from the static a gigantic duck,
but it was stupid, empty, and dumb,
so they the heavy dave’s brain in it stuck

now, what a master, a waddle, fantastic,
the duck could waylay you with just a quack, it
wasn’t the tone, the volume, or sound,
but something within it settled you down

the duck was majestic, imperial almost,
such was its stature, silent, composed,
and maybe it matters, and maybe it don’t,
a thousand feet high, from tip to toe

the time was arising, the moment was nearing,
to march the monster out into the city,
to confront the caesar’s praetorian guards
and challenge it all, the purple, the charge

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