Desert Updates, Poetry/Prose

Roots

Photo/art credit: mine

Photo/art credit: mine

If the great olive tree got plucked, every continent would lift and crack into dusty fragments.

Today, so many of its bloody branches beg for rain.

Westerners scoff the mistress they bed each night, making schizophrenic love to her. Buying her diamonds, gold, apartments, Ferraris, the future, before they slap her across the face in public–headline after headline. Paying in the dark for her favors. Showcasing a different bride by day, after day, after Western day.

And who ends up looking bad?

The curve of the Earth comes in handy.

This place … in pockets, it’s deafeningly quiet on Friday mornings–so much religion draws so much grief, and so much reaction begs for more.

But still, here, now, it’s so quiet on Fridays that I can hear the past–long before all of this money started mutating the winds. Long before perversion and divinity snuck away and became inseparable friends at some important worldwide political shindig that so many of us would rather never, ever, attend.

Before the lies wove through the first words heard by baby brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, who matured just enough to ride their naive ambitions up and over the rim of a blender–they dive into its madness, plugged in by foreign funding, turned on by local “leaders.”

It’s not like this everywhere. Just in this oily neighborhood.

And everyone reads and watches the news that they themselves create, without asking if it’s true, without dining with a single soul from here, outside their make and model. Everyone thinks and thinks and thinks they know. Yes, we’re sure we do.

Expatriates in aged-like-fine-wine time capsules turn around–we look over our shoulders, and all we see are people we used to talk to more sincerely, dreaming about what they think they know. And we order another red, or white … or blue, and smile, saying “enough about that–whatcha been up to?”

But this is MY blog, so I will hide behind it, whispering to our roots, to our deeper sensibilities, to that part of any of us that may agree, but never has to tell anyone, not even me, not even me to myself half the time:

When you drive your car, while drinking from a plastic water bottle and listening to either-winged announcers defending or catalyzing your opinions … when you turn on the lights, take a flight, do anything that takes energy, that comes from the ground beneath my feet and say so surely that you know it’s a bad place, with bad people who do bad things, that you buy … that you buy–oh boy, you buy SO many things.

When you knock it without thinking you’ve tried when really all your money supports it. When you group the politics with the dead baby. When we claim and claim and claim with all our mislead, divided hearts.

See yourself, clearly.

Listen to the silence, tell the winds to kiss off and see yourself–hopelessly attached, a participant fully, in everything words try to categorize and justify and stage as something separate from you. But you know, it never, ever truly could be.

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