Chafe

I wear the guilt of the reluctant non-revolutionary poorly;
it fits, but illness drives my feet to Flintstone vehicle speeds,
overcoming the stone limits with liquid oxygen, filtered 
from someone else's air to ensure peak brain functioning
in this brain that won't storm the field or the rooms
where it happens, where the world could change,
where power speaks down to prevalence
and tells it to stay in the place
where ending-up
turned into fate.
I struggle anyway
against the artificial fetters
whose individualized health plan
also comes at the expense of the group lifespan
and meteors into another non-evolutionary shift,
wouldn't Darwin be sad, that survival fitness is our
excuse to bring about the end of days.