Swing a noose around the lasso and cancel them both out

My consciousness is merely a fender on my brain. Much like my skull is a helmet. I see what I’ve been told I should see, I hear what I’ve been conditioned to hear, and I interpret the world as a tall white man living a life of comparative luxury in the first world.

It’s a straddle and no speakers about it. I have airplane lottery tickets dangling in the dozens around my neck, backstage passes from all the concerts I’ve ever wanted to go to. My eyes are twin modems and I see the world downloaded through my vision. My skin is a camera. My bones are made of glass and it’s only a butterfly wing away from reminding me how mortal I am. Diseased meat stretched around a filament of bone sticks and bone pegs.

I am a median. I am a traffic cone. I am yellow lines painted down the middle of basket-weaving courses funded by professional distractors. My voice, when unified with the rest of the voices, is powerful. My voice, when given the ability to change the opinions of many minds at a time, is powerful. That goes for all of us. Keep us down. Keep us segregated. Keep us entertained.

This is not news. This is what my eyes say to my brain all day. This is not news. I am on a ferris wheel and the ride is getting monotonous. I am not bored. I am not ungrateful. But I am worried at the gathering speed.

I need to remove my filters. I need to uncondition my hair and bequeath bare feet to my soul again. The gravity of time has me. The gravity of this planet has me. But I need to life up my mind. I need to light bulb higher. My thinker is gathering precepts and defaults. It’s accruing a mess of ‘knowledge’. It’s becoming glutted with facts, making it too smart to realize, making it too stuffed to think. My brain is a saturated sponge in need of a wringout or a drying.

I need a cleaning. And I need it soon.


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Audrey

I see compassion growing in your tender strawberry moon heart, I see steering apparatus forming in your still-soft skull. Broken people have the sharpest edges but you are round and clear and unsullied. Religions that tell of the evil in children are deaf salesmen spiders drowning in jealousy. I envy the clarity of intent in your blue eyes. You are more super hero than person right now, more monk than fighter, more Buddhist that most Buddhists.

I feel oppressive silence when you and your mother are not at home. The silence of what my life would have been without you both. I feel so elated and scared at the same time to think how hollow that would be, like a speeding truck just missed me in an intersection.

Your clock is winding. The colourful machines inside you are balanced and working in tandem. Everything is going according to plan. I see the divine every morning in your face. I understand belief in a higher power when I look at you because what else could be responsible? You make the word miracle into a dull understatement and you can’t even talk or walk yet.

I am lost in your whirlwind, beguiled by your unknowable mind and deeply, deeply in love.




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