Who Am I?

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

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