3.1.11

Nightmare

A season of death, lacking warmth, deprived of comfort. Winter again. On goes civilization, detour for construction. The choice of paths is reduced to one. The forest is gone, there is no way less traveled. Paved away, a concrete coffin towers, we cannot fit our bodies underground. Up and up they go, giving themselves more distance down. A man at a window in Manhattan. Eric Clapton's child. Survival is impossible for a seed on this ground. Tar has become our nutriment.

Is something wrong? This is how it is. We are the blood of the earth we must get to its brain in our cars.

Its brain is our money. We're fooled. I can only laugh at it. Destruction is not permitted... But I'm paying for it! Tear it down, show me the ground, show me a tree, show me a river flowing green reflecting a sunbeam on the underside of leaves in a pattern unimaginable. Show me something you cannot write in numbers, show me a map to beauty.

Okay but you'll have to drive, because where you are is not filled with it as much as over there, but when you get there it wont be there because it's always moving. Running from the steamroller hiding in a willow. You too must run to catch up with its secrets.

Everywhere I see is now nowhere because it's all the same, it's all the concrete. It doesn't change. Not with the season, not with the rain, it only becomes black asphalt or red broken clay. A tombstone for the planet, we'll bury the whole thing in its own tar drenched remains.

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