Living's ruminative rule:
Know not what you're getting into.
Smothered, soft head and two feet
Warm still in a nest built for you.
But thought to be founded, instead.

Right when nature makes sense
Resplendent, fluorescent lights
Taste insane. You've been born, a bastard
Art of cellular division or rather a skin itch.
Nearly dead, feathered mother will soon write

Poetry with sound waves the same shape
Of your fingerprints. Father's broken voice is
Heard as it will always be with weeps
And screams, "Oh boy, a boy"
With red-stitched baseballs in irises.

Air-conditioner for adult comfort freezes
Wet salmon pink skin. And, you howl for mercy,
Though the wild doctor with strong hands will cut you
Loose, anyway. Instantly, you hunger, ache, pray
Until you draw from her breast,
Finally, formally introduced.

Rally the People with Earphones Lodged in their Left Brains

Twenty-something and sure of the world she's been given,
Her Facebook reads, "So sick of hearing political fights on the streets
About who is for who. For Christ's Sake, keep your vote to yourself." 

Like Paine when he picked up origami rather than proceed
With Stars-and-Stripes Liberty-and-Freedom jargon.
Such a better use of paper than his "Common Sense"!

Or, as Rousseau when he orderly formulated France
Into a hushed breadline, where everybody smiled after
Their half loaf and cooed in front of the obese king, happy.

Her Facebook is the modern Toussaint, using her elite
Technology to raise a nation to sit down without another
Sound. In the words of Toussaint, "Slave labor is a steam bath,

Fit for the mind and foreign cities. Be grateful to be useful!" 
He spoke no further, only signing what he was given and
Counting the days until he could return to Paris for croissants.

She has 24 likes, no chance of dislikes, and 15 talks
Going at once with family, friends, and strangers 
Her mother warned her never to talk to, but she's sick

Of the old political discourse. So sick of hearing,
"Who do you represent?"
She represents a body of one.