Tuesday, October 9, 2018

Who Am I?

We stand before vacant stares
and silent thoughts, a
power diminished
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 

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

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