It does not belong here, the adamantine
Plasma, in soaked papyrus, with the people
Who get you as incompletely as you do.
And what of Gate 10, the solar womb,
How does one explain, in the wirecrossing hum,
The terminal teams, the friction interactions,
Sun blue over a city captive held?
We are all of us needy, none of us needed,
Pulling at time until it breaks in our favor,
Talk of Mexican Donuts and estrogen mares,
Ways to experience stasis as flux, flux as movement.
It's clockwork the sun, or used to be. Lately
The councils have called in from other worlds,
Many people here are not people at all, many systems
Intrinsically flawed and failing exactly for that.
Our eyes now see the purple through the cracks,
Higher dictates pulling reins, unyielding loss of
The fixed, what no longer serves, as they say,
What never really did.
It was always a day trip on bird wings away
From the blood plugged machinery, the route clean
To your heart and your sovereignty, which includes
Me tapping away at ancient ghosts, from Atlantis mist
And the past where I saw what I looked like not at all
Yet the whole world turned on every word, each thought
I had, every vibration that shivered through.
It was always my world, mine only
Yet I was afraid of skyscrapers and all the other things
That were never really there to begin with. Those wings
Of white that cannot be an optical refraction:
It's still a game, only the ante has been raised.
