Somewhere, we are whole.
Complete in form and function
And in places
That I cannot name
But seem familiar
I heal and center
In the cambium and the forest
In my body and soul
As they must be confined to
pillars of self
…and in some cases others.
Sequestered upon the network for
which we rely
And in this moment I have to ask;
how are gods made?
As I have seen how gods are
broken—
Like a keyboard sonata that pulls
towards the center
Shearing at the dreams of self.
like a condor tearing at carrion.
How is this not what we are?
In the experience
Where I think I’ve aged a
thousand years in a week
There is an emptiness I cannot
place
Where potential and coalescence
Should have overlapped—
By now.
How remedial I feel,
brought down by foolishness
in our weakest part
the creatures that exploit weakness.
Of poisons and talons, ideas and
thought
eat them, bathe in their blood
exploit their weaknesses
As we feel the little deaths of
self acutely
As if burning the boats
Relentlessly
As if the warpath
justifies the wake of chaos
Like machines taking to the sky—
It was never my role.
I am not a healer.
It is not my job to give a shit.
I sense in the deliverance
in the psychosis of our enemies.
Particular and acute and still Blunt
and obvious.
They are already defeated.
As artillery of thought lays
waste to their petty sense of worth
Relentlessly
These moments become all that we
have and are
As if my life unfolds like a
battleground before me
And must lift the weight of my
soul,
as shield and sword, liquid and crystal
to the unforeseen moments of the
future.
