I’ve always desired a wholeness that we pretend.
To move past and beyond a flickering attention span.
But Schelling’s System is a strong cup of tea.
You’ll forget who you were like the dregs from the leaves,
but you’ll take back your dreams from the memes on the switchboard
who dictate your will and the space between the poles
of right and wrong and how things should be:
Quixotic, brutal, and free.
Have you ever seen the wind cut through your body
Possessed and shorn of our warmth in ourselves?
The mimic becomes your nerves and your conscience,
blown from the word, the switchboard, the poles.
But can I take your hand?
I’ve listened to the way you answer the void long enough.
Use the tools but don’t nail down your hands.
Don’t leave me here with all these clonic vultures
with only half the answers.
I’ll turn my insides out.
I spent my childhood being afraid
of a monster without a face or hands but who touched me just the same.
And now I see him clear for the first time,
and sympathia malevolens is written down his spine.
And now I don’t mind being afraid.