Atop Glass Hill

Today is the hottest ever, they say,
30 September, consulting their records

of the planet as if they hadn’t wrested
this land from its inhabitants in

genocidal frenzy. Right now lake air
is cool and crisp. Sounds carry.

My neighbor’s laugh full-bodied.
A saw buzzes and the highway thrums.

These human sounds contrived,
verbose, disrespecting songbirds.

The subtle flavors in the umami
of breakfast: I take a bite,

transcend what explodes instantly
on my tongue. Slow-tasting air

like wine. I’m usually lakeside
when dawn celebrates the passing

of night creatures and the day
beings announce their awakening.

In late-morning cacophony I turn
to story for relief, lean into

the cultural matrix, schooled by
once upon a time, coaxed into

the waiting space while surely
contenders vying for my hand

perform impossible tasks
to reach me. I am trapped

outside my true habitat–
a duck waddling to the water–

in flickering fables constructed
by spooks who’ve studied brain

cages. Only freed when I change
my mind and write a new tale.

We rescue each other
outside of time and space

where our true beings dance
freely connected by love.

Inspired by: Verbose, Crisp, Transcend and Waddle.

(And this article by the clear-eyed @Caitoz who points out,

“Take off the revolutionary’s mask, and it’s the CIA.
Take off the terrorist’s mask, and it’s the CIA.
Take off the newsman’s mask, and it’s the CIA.
Take off the filmmaker’s mask, and it’s the CIA.
Take off the professor’s mask, and it’s the CIA.
Take off the billionaire’s mask, and it’s the CIA.
Take off the whistleblower’s mask, and it’s the CIA.
These monsters are raping our sensemaking faculties.”)

Published by

Victoria Stuart

I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

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