In the
distance, the city dome. Choked mish-mash of living.
A hive of
monsters, their Servants chipped and pinned to an unshakeable system. Work to
create. Live to consume. 24 hours of being seated. Own nothing. No-
-thing.
Big-pharma-drip-fed
the next miracle cure for the problem of previous cures. Vaccinating
you against the pandemic of thinking. You—
you
could be there, breathing patent-protected air. A mountain
hermit. Poet, redundant. A
happy outcast holding tight memories of simple things. A scrape of soil under fingernail. Sting of a nettle:
scratching in irritation and awe. A petal
fall-
ing.
The
scentless-ness of crystalline waterfalls and the joy of things mundane, like
sourcing that one gift that would say it all
Inexpensively
priceless, like the Yen in your hand
Scrunched
reminder smoothed out in your palm, fragile now
Bearing
oils of many fingertips, and ink marks of once-words, indistinguishable now
Rucked reminder smoothed out in
your palm, fragile now
Of rice-straw-scented days,
kimono-colored skies and suitcase-crams before the first breath in exotic lands
so unlike
here, where the
choked-dome-mish-mash emits painful blue light to which your cataract-veiled
eyes turn
