That crack in the structure, which when examined
leads exponential to such vivid complexity
You could never pretend to understand even your own
tiny angle, and as for beyond, your feelout senses heave and pull, strong gentle
adrift in attempts at pattern recognition, so a heavy degree of lightness appears only hope
in sundown, rise, stars, darkness. But
what is happening here isn’t that. Unpacking a clusterfuck
of careless commodification, where desire for any connection
pulls in sharp, and it’s perhaps only by chance when
something shines out brightly, a beacon of expression
from a hair matted past. Or it could appear so, something is telling you it is so, but you
find you know know otherwise. Those E.T. touches of possibility
always held more of everything than every fucking plastic print,
every snatch and grab blowback, all those yearnings
entertained, yet held back on. And the contacts made
with imagination beings are always realer than those crisp packet
monsters, those plastic lights, mythology made from sales targets.
It’s not the 20th Century anymore, and we discover we are far from that strange
stage we called home. And yet still it surrounds us.
Roots and bugs, mycelic in its rotten debris,
processing, processing, creating not just connections,
But new fertile soil.