this is the endless night
i can't sleep
i feel just so stressed at the thought of all the time it will take for me to complete all these tasks
i can't seem to relax
the comfort of it all seems insane
living in nyc is insane
there is so little nature it hurts
the amount of constant noise is unbearable
for a sane person, i mean
seriously
this existence is awful
how can millions dilute themselves?
booze and other drugs, me thinks
the experiences of rooftops and basements with substances is key
those memories are the strong stenches of nostalgia which tie us to their subservience
to this game, this flow, this hustle, this beat, this mix bag of designer and tailored profiteering
high in high rises we march, through unnatural ups and downs
beyond stimulated to the point of being floored
back down again, elevated rides in patched periods of temporary pause
until the lighter clicks, the neck pops, the metal twists and again we press buttons
more time spent going up, down, upper, lower, mids, quads, lids, shake
thunder overhead reminds us this land was once pristine and native
rain attempting to collapse the paper mache rendering of resource and denial
hundreds of years of this
in the making, baking, making, taking, faking, waking worlds of all industry
all ages, sizes, creeds and tongues
the quantity of networks, lines and signals pumping through our minds is inconceivable
literally
for true understanding seems an internet search away, and yet all signal is not equal
interference runs circles around the paths of birds
patterns of exchange and communication disrupted at the very level of nature
by invisible slaughter, bleeding down overhead, our laughter
at jokes and at the expenses of others, is cloaked by cross wiring of natural and artificial dialects
our smiles are brought on by brightness of screens,
rhythms of whales and their mating calls are lunatic and dismissed
how dare ANYONE break the illusion that our device, and edifice, is good enough
speak up? call out? yell in union station?
catch the echo of solitary and momentary joy, forcing stares from all staff as suspect
nothing natural in the yell, only a potential of something unspoken and un-hoped for
in this city, i hugged a tree with beautiful bark, and surrounding the roots a plethora of acorns
heart to heart we embraced, and I had the urge to look up,
moving towards me was a lone squirrel, scurrying down the washed trunk with muddy paws
curious and hungry, this creature has adapted, to the presence of progress
the noise of societal gain has uninterrupted the search for fare and fortune
what can you give me? who do you know? who do they know? whats in your pocket?
these cross and inter species questions draw humorous comparisons
and so this fur-tailed tree dweller gets closer and wants something
I take my smart steps around the landing zone to a surprise jump, and watch
as this little alive being bobs and weaves through the grass
finding the blades with the scent, or the lay line of energy
that tell them where to dig, and on he or she goes, making her paws muddy,
and i watch and wonder how silent it must have been, before we came,
before our land-escaping from our urban trappings changed the routes of squirrels
our, hollowing out trees and bees' homes while gnomes watch and shake nubby fingers like
we told you so, we old you know, this road you sow, its plagued in tow
to your ideas, to your creeds, to your stone carved decries that simulate authority
we can never change the course of a hurricane, and until we learn,
we will push air through tunnels and money through exchanges like the masters of the universe
and yet we will feel empty, because in this beautiful world of ideals we have placed filters
of religion, beliefs, theories, hypothesis, proofs, photography and modernity
which ARE the lens, which have become the slits in the barrier between you and light
so the inverted rotation of everything on this planet looks and is rendered a certain frame per second
to your eye, as this, played back through, endless searches for the feeling of initial joy,
is the definition of insanity, and we look for this feeling, in cities, and not in
each other
or nature
we run and risk the wheel of perish
Lady Fortuna is a mother culture tongue, lapping up our cerebral fluids, like
“I AM THE ONLY STORY, SKYSCRAPER OF MYTHOS, OBEY AND FORGET.”
(I’d rather not forget my indigenous soul and the more beautiful world our hearts know is possible)
…so I moved…
9.20.18