But there was a commotion last night,
A white tree and renaissance trumpets
Brought humanity out of its shell and, later,
Onto the rotary foamy drinks in hand
As a holographic insert sang from 1947
On an Dyna-Voice microphone.
A year ago, things were very different.
My face was made to appear calm,
For I was not yet allowed to live,
Not able yet to see enough of the illusion
That fueled the room, her enduring,
Holding on in that moment to whatever she could
Until there was no more reason to stay.
My memory of it is frozen, in sepia sun
That was always calm, like the oxygen
Machine whirring. My beating heart
Reaches now, for what's lost,
Or at least what it appears to be, in
Today's sun, more clear but certainly
No less beautiful.
It's served up like a case in one of those
Ghost antiques stores, a touchstone
For your consideration, to take or leave.
Is it worth the price? Is it worth
Taking home to share your space?
Does it, the moment you set eyes on it,
Possess you? If so, when will it let you live?
It catches your eye, only a thing to look at
That will, like most of the world already has,
Disappear when you have seen it
And you know it finally as mnemosyne,
The hallucination reality saps
That there is a past outside of experience
And a future without a choice.
