Conflict cross the path of the resistance: what, can we?
The grid is open and the circuit is raging. In all kinds of directions it disconnects, traversing the apparatus, spreading.
These years I lay dreaming, letting every particle of wonder soak into my porous body, evaporating, shaking with crisis. Embedded in a second, I send out vibrations because I don’t think (i don’t think!) that people will listen. This is more subtle, a drift, something dredging up from the edge of consciousness, a wish, dancing between the tip of spit that leaves my tongue as I sing and pant in the gruesome fight.
In the dark I rush towards hands that look and eyes that touch. Something grows between my toes.
Greed aplenty, bursting, rising, tasting, touching all those dreams escaping.
The rage hasn’t stopped, the rage will never stop. The people in charge got there by accident, I got here by accident.
We cross a path and hesitate. Will we meet this time?
Broken in multiples, enclosed in camps, we are not animated, not fully. Wires in my back have been separated. Only one need slip and the system is in chaos (the system is chaos anyway, we do not need to stop touching!).
We touch with our eyes these days, and look with our hands, a different kind of sympathy.
Stop asking whether the grid is still working, abandonment is not the same as caring.
In response I take a thread of grass and pull the seams tightly, to the edges where the frays are escaping, not in the interest of tidiness, but for clarity.
I wrench taut cities and tower blocks and bridges and churches and surgeries and restaurants and graveyards.
Dispersing, every moment, I hatch, every moment, unpopulated, every moment, a rash so disturbing it never leaves.
Scars left on bodies, scars left on trees.
Everything trickles into everything.
Oh my rest is the consequence of all this raging