He hurls a stone & the implant behind his ear logs
impact before it blooms; they installed it last chinook—
said it would keep the streets out of his head
infinitesimal incision, a sterilized beep
a number branded to his spine

Now every maghrib, the chip tempers
a hushed fever under skin & the insurrections arrive on schedule
not memory—no, the doctor voiced that twice—this is
fashioned footage, optimised rage, state-approved
angles, throngs sharpened, slogans sheared
smoke color-corrected, his pupils dilate
on directive

We hear it leak sometimes—
chanting slithering between his teeth while he slumbers
boots parading through his pulse; he jerks awake mid-throw
fingers fixated around nothing, then again—again
his arms circle it like a signal caught up

On the wall, the government feed snakes the same burning bus
inside his skull, it’s closer, thunderous, personal
he tells me he can feel the heat vesicate his gums
he says the stone culls his hand

Ma tries to press oil into his scar
the chip trembles, rejects her touch
an ominous tone, low & polite
he grins like he’s been trained to appease

Last night, he opened his gob & a bloody siren came out
not ear-splitting—just enough to rearrange the room
we stood there, furniture switching its allegiance

This morn, they sent an update
brisker playback, deeper immersion
he hasn’t blinked since

Now when he hurls, the fenestra breaks before the stone leaves
& we behold it clearly—there’s no street outside
only a throng waiting inside his skull
& it has started to look like us

[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a donation from Morris Stuttard during our annual Fund Drive.]