What a joke the equation has become to the machine.
But we are still alive.
The algebra of hunger. The chaos of need.
Soon, you’ll all be fighting for your planet. many of you will be dying for your planet. A few of you will be put through a fine mesh screen for your planet. They will be the luckiest of all.
I stalk these backwards alleys and hear the lost young crying out in need
I hear the whingers whincing, screaming for freedom
The freedom to make us all inconsequent and lonesome,
Torn apart from our community and the sad fate of wanting comfort and surcease
So I carry rocks in my pockets on the way to my Virginia Woolf lakeside retreat
and throw them into windows
so the people there can breathe
The answers aren’t coming with tight sealants, or an air-conditioned nightmare, or a bloodless politician’s name
The answers come from re-oxygenating a long polluted forest stream
From the pulminologist in the darkened couch basement next to you, holding hands, massaging your palm as you watch horror and nightmare on your own terms on a screen
over a dip with many layers