We stand before vacant stares
and silent thoughts, a
power diminished
vanquished
before the assumed majesty
of the brain that no longer thinks
but follow the dictates
of popup ads and false
words—the vascular dementia of a truncated culture
that no longer knows
who they are.
Our memory
stolen from birth
in the roots of trees,
bone and rock — lost and forgotten
deep within the molten magma that
boils over with the rage
of those that no longer hear.
Once we were beings, cohabitants
of a biosphere where all
was one, equal to the those
we shared life until synapses
climaxed and folded inward—
an origami of hubris
unwilling to let go
the need to control,
to lead, to vanquish the fear
of vulnerability;
to feel safe.
I visit my father, no longer
his once capable self who blew up mountains
and
built roads—a man’s job in a man’s world living
in
a world no longer his, no longer the domain of the animus
but
of the anima… animal, fauna, flora, fungus, fecund, fertility, female: the
soul
waiting
for us
to still
to listen.
He sits passive, a brain
unwilling to rebel against the power
that constrains—a soft-shelled prison
of eating and sleeping and waiting, waiting, I waited all day, he
says while I
drive to and fro, drive, driving, driven
no longer sure of where I go or who I am as others look at trees
and see
views blocked, lawns damaged and cars
spattered with the sap
of living
breathing
power
