The
only memory of our homes found by archeologists will be the fruit
stickers in the compost,
all
the rest will be looted for resources by the deteriorating many of
our descendents.
I
know it will all be gone as I know I will die,
because
I believe in time.
The
illusion is obvious, it's now hip to reject Reality,
the
linguistic entity that defines our lives.
Sensitivity
draws me towards the details of times' plurality
like
the plurality of dreams,
but
the extent to which these universes exist
is
the extent to which I can talk about them with my friends.
Communication
creates my reality, and communication rejects what I do not like.
Time
heals everything
that
shame does not obscure
that
is exposed to the light
that
is not breaking into dense carbon beneath the surface of my skin
that
is spoken into honest air
with
friends and lovers
that
is not subject to censure by The State.
It
rises to the surface,
painful
as a volcano,
spews
its wrath,
releases
hate-gas into the atmosphere;
the
trees breathe, the earth eats, the waters rise and fall,
themselves
cleaned by rain and salt, patterns of birth and death.
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