A Prose Poem
Another day knocks on my eager window.
It wants nothing but to be looked through.
The opposite of us all.
About the word.
These single distinct elements,
An alchemy of linguistics, history, transference, and bullshit.
Does our varied use of them make them so, or were they that before us?
Words are bartering tools,
And we are the ones
To construct or destroy.
To go inside the word? Outside to contradict?
Perhaps everywhere so to unify?
What are words but life triggering all
Senses — love, hate, sight, touch -
Some smell in there
If it’s the good kind
But all kind is good, all kind is king.
I will never be excused by time.
I will always be within time.
Unless I get some of that good before death stuff
In the form of noxious anxiety
To take me to a pixelated place
Where sounds are shapes and amorphous sentients
Of pre-ancient times
Whisper to me in a child-like way (secrets secrets are no fun).
Yet they are not children.
They are stars made of dust.
Like we are,
Cast out like lepers
To reach a place of deeper solitude:
Where the trees cannot even throw shade
Where the rain can no longer wet with self-righteous mist
Where the sun can no longer burn or warm or soothe
Where nature -
Time’s little bitch -
No longer recognizes my gait
Or even my look.
I am no longer Her child.
I am no longer Her parasite
Because I have changed,
Abandoning all She has given me.
I fulfill the curse of humanities need
And go forth helpless.
Progress. Expand. Innovate.
Exploit. Destroy. Forget.
No Matter the Cost.