Where is this island found in space?
Am I interrupting a process by asking?
Or have I just invested in seeing it through?
Where is the edge of the grid and what lies beyond it?
Emptiness or salvation?
When I take a shit should I look forward to another meal?
We are flesh drops living on a thin crust of surface,
That is slowly evaporating into space.
Build us boxes to hide us from the sun and the infinite,
We are aphids feeding in a petroleum net of activity,
I am now a Dharma mite wandering through a forest of sagebrush.
Looking for the edge where I don’t get milked,
How many years have I tried to escape the constraints of petroleum culture?
That counterfeit world of reality where 3d printers can mock up my wishes,
With metal dust and plastic seams,
I can’t imagine the amount of work and struggle it takes to steal
What is the need to ransack the thin crust of a planet
Until debris is scattered over every square inch of the surface?
What drives the lust of need to make a planet uninhabitable?
Aliens, warlords, lemmings or end times book hawkers.
What is the prize after power has run its course,
When the sheet rock palace has emerged from radioactive floods,
And mudslides block the doorways and windows,
And the roof collapses from so many people riding out the storm.
Does this quest for stability go all the way back to “fabled” King David and his search for a home?
On our final school bus tour which served as a mobile home,
We came to the sagebrush mesa, off the grid, parked
My fear of the infinite remains to write these words as a legacy for progeny,
For the story of those ascended is only revealed through the silence of infinite space.