The placental tides swing back, a wash in the throat-bile
and its balm the same. You hold, and nothing’s sadder, to the walls containing the promise of a liberation you thought fated. You hold, tight, to perse
dreams of walls wainscoted, life bled true. And there’s truth in that; and in
that truth of selfholding held long enough, you believe. And believe the next
step in believing. And something better than you and a bit less happens; and
you call it evolution though you know it’s another name unnamed by the one rendering it.
We don't care of the plod sending billions of shamed children to drugged doom by parents split and spoiled and spooled by the curvature you haven't the courage to name, though you know it screams and claws ever neural impulse, sketching decay on screens and print and the universities declaiming us.
The marrow of it came to me when I sat on a red couch asking myself how truth and everything heard might be one and the same and where they differ. Currency had nothing to do with it: it's a ponzi scam crumbling us all ten, fifteen years from now; the monetary system is the largest gull by gulled hurt, redblue bruised. I thought that sending one simple message, indiscreet, might have an impact. And with the simultaneous force a thousand ways by cells respiring, construed, owed, give something we'd by any consensus call better.
The plan was...............................
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