A Galaxy Far, Far...
As the Gods and demigods hold court and sway like lizards scrurrying from the sun, I remember: to be merely human, to try, to fail, to lie broken and feel the unleashed torrent of grief, this is what all the kings and queens are too weak to undergo.
A long time ago in a galaxy far far away...there was a band of rebels fighting to save freedom...before there was terrorvision, before the big freeze pitted everyone again each other, in a fierce competition over the rapidly dwindling resource of...love...kindness. Hope. Faith. Trust.
These sorry-looking rebels met at a coffee shop, stayed up all night playing cards for pennies, drinking lots of espresso, pushing the pinball machine on tilt-a-whirl rides that carried us all home alive...not just undead, as we seem to slide from days of heaven to those deliberate days that only ask we endure them, and forget...all the lies like crushed peanut shells in an empty pharm-chem industrial theme park of paxil (tm) without end.
It was here, in this coffee shop, that the two rebels met and believed in the strength of: a rose is a rose unless it grows out of the soil in your heart. Now I merely stand accused of: oversentamentalism, martyrdom and remembering...when the black ice is supposed to enclose your heart, and you're obliged to be silent, go away, grow old and die.
The dark force won, after all. We didn't even put up much of a fight. Far easier to give up, forget, deny it ever happened; that way there's no responsibility, no lung-crushing depression filmed in noxious black fumes. At least an opium addict can dream.
As the solitary explorer, I search for the soul vine to save me in the Peruvian Amazon, as each little death takes me further into this region of space. So many comrades have fallen as I wonder if I have, as well, when viewed by another who has made it out. Alive, not just undead. It was predictable, I suppose, that the poet would become reviled, recluse. After all, who can argue with the vanity parade, all powerful, invincible armies of cell phone soldiers obeying their television thirst/hunger never ceases for more.
And the enemy is anyone who questions this malaise and calls it by its name: Lucifer, bearer of false light and hope...ahh, the glimmer of shiny things, well polished and cared for. How can one turn their back on humanity and be called misanthrope when humanity has turned its back on itself. Amidst this great culling, I've cried for all the mothers and others, sisters and brothers, and occasionally their stars reappear. I love their brave flicker, even though no one looks up and asks why. I honor this crushing disappointment of being human, of failing and broken dreams, more than anything.
As the Gods and demigods hold court and sway like lizards scrurrying from the sun, and so many line up to applaud their maudlin play, I remember: to be merely human, to try, to fail, to lie broken and feel the unleashed torrent of grief, this is what all the kings and queens are too weak to undergo. Why shouldn't they envy us, try to kill us, the handful that remain, writing, painting, singing, screaming it down the long black tunnels we're forced to walk alone.
I remember this once proud band of rebels; I remember her, us, we, not me. I know it all happened. 2 + 2 does not equal 5. I remember...long ago in a galaxy far, far away.
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