The global body breaks into sweats: the thermometer mounts perceptibly. But to a certain black stuff we’re hooked, a black stuff that runs out. We search for it beneath mountains oceans glaciers mounds of bristling guns. We suck it up through pipes rockets missiles jets racing cars skyscrapers tunnels underground. We rev our engines over freeway blacktop. We want and we’re desperate. With twitching hands we fisticuff, bust noses, slash lips. And with syringes, stab the globe’s crusty skin: how we yearn for that black gold fix in our veins.
—Brian Campbell
