In the palace we’ve been kneeling
to the flickering blue god
lapping up the dopamine, reeling
unspeakable homage awed, odd
existence we’ve constructed
in our dreams. I’m a white
boomer, cowed, misinstructed
a sacrificial volunteer
because I’m here, I survived
the twists of narrative shifts.
Today the palace walls reveal
a makeshift cabin, cables bare
unravel, down to the wire
dangerously sparking. There
the narrative gap appears
we blink in dissonance and fear:
why are we here? Who wields power
panic-driving in this practiced
horror flick? Didn’t I read this
contrived plot in dystopian schtick?
I turn from this projection, sing
with calm, unwavering I reach
the door, ignore the rich confection
beckoning quest, I feel the trees
rooted drawing spring, the birds
praising what’s real disregarded
too many words, our separation
myths drive us to this. And yet
we freak out when the story shifts.
Here is the opening: dive in.
The world is new now we create
the saving gifts. I’m here
for you in ways we have no clue.
Soundcloud recording here.
Inspired by quest, cabin, calm and the Saturday Stream of Consciousness prompt wire, the unsettling panic descending when the narrative shifts abruptly and the public service announcement: this is the chance we’ve been waiting for to step out of the old paradigm and create connection.