 |
picture
by Benedetta Bonichi ©
|
the
Aztec calendar is another Clark Kent in love with a mermaid
this
scrawl stone tablet
that
has been stealing
time’s
perpetuity
keeps
creeping up
in
waves of importance
as
one end time
after
another goes
by
the wayside
we keep putting to a test
the
thoughts of our being
a
species that lives best
behind
a curtain of knowledge
routinely
seen as needed
to
keep us from being
a
careening close to an out of control
modernity
at the wheel
our sanctuaries are all over
an
emotionless road map
of
blank faces and zombie states
of
consciousness spread across
the
wheelhouses, dashboards
and
rumble seated reins
of
the 1st century
the
11th century
and
the 21st century
with
their sorrows
and
lament
for
having borrowed
against
the future
without
a thought
of
paying it back
with
grace, harmony
or
even acknowledgement
is a thievery
of our humanity
happening
again
and again
over
time
scientists
at
this very moment
are
convening
with
the truth
to
stow us away
with
conjecture
and
pliable emotions
they
are perfecting
what
infects us with secrets
that
can serve us
in
coffee and water
on
the conference table
outside
the doors
we
bend our ears low
to
the nickel-ferrite
lining
in the walls
and
hear nothing
so
we start
making
up stories
that
science has long ago
sold
its soul
to
keep the mouth
that
cries why
from
being permanently sewn shut
while
the rest of us
become
content
to
chase electric rabbits
around
endless clay circles
the
academies
numb
down
to
please
this
is how
the
money changers
lease
control
to
every brand of thinking
they
order disorder
inside
of order
in
order for the chaos
of
consuming our souls
to
be a slowly kept on guard
each
of the little boxes
we
are born with
tell our stories
as we fill with dust and pages
we
are told to keep everything
we
can inside these confines
and
to start believing in TV
as
the puzzle piece key
of
going forward
just
beyond
what
is locked
and
left behind
under
the centuries
of
piled salt
this
is the gnawing thought
of
a dorsal fin logic
who
belongs to the webbing
between
our fingers
could
they mean
they
were the sea’s
that
we were once
underwater
with wings
and
all that we would ever need
to
rudder a thought
sharp
enough to cut the fog
of
our pop cultural banality
would
be endless teeth
and
a way of thinking
for
more than ourselves
we
cut our skin
to
paint maps onto memory
we
leak our ink into dreams
we
become fictional spills
we
linger in all our exhales
we live for wombs
we
become tales of mer-people
splitting
off
our
ancestral tree
some
6.5 million years ago
developing
almost wholly unnoticed
except
for legend and stories
we
live in tides
that
stay with us
when
travelling lifetimes
by
water and the stories
that
the ancients knew
as
any truth resorts to myth
in
order to hide reasons we live
when
we strip away electricity
and
find our morrow
is
still filled with a desire
that
can’t be put into words
when
we scratch and claw marks
into
a story of counting stones
and
falling stars full of bones
telling
a story in pictures
of
when time began
and
pinches together
the
Universe
every
once in awhile
flying
the parabola of this cosine
cradles
the very ends
of
what a smile is made for
that this torch
from
crouch to carry
is a
star that we can
follow
home again
EJR
©
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