You are but a projection of me,
As to say, one is gone.
With some divine right, in exile from Eden,
We choose to write the words of back-washed relief.
In some simultaneous reflection of the naïve light through cloud shot skies-
We move to the sound of a bell,
The call for the next original line.
And if by some projection of you,
On some white-washed wall,
We find some post-modern debt- paying forward our subject,
And counting our loses,
Then, perhaps, in your worthy epilogue we find sense,
Because ‘we’ is me, and ‘you’ never were.
On display, in the window by the bay,
We draw the maps, etched in plaster,
One road to another, from beginning to no end,
In one swift unconscious move towards a meeting point,
By an apple tree,
We see that there is no Me.
The causality of the non-art no movement,
Like the hole we fell down once-
To the place I want you in there with me and perhaps, in the nude.
Because the non-me chooses to revolt in the name of absence.
I am but some poorly constructed contour,
Hung on the wall of your projection,
Your on going film of glory and good intentions,
We find pedistals for the who needs both a home and a box,
Something transient, on the road that we mapped,
To the harbor, to Spain.
And, we will run into the law abiding fantasy marked as freedom,
Marketed to who?
Habitually buying the tickets to fortune.
Vying for fame, to make a name for yourself,
When you can’t even recall that which you were given,
Your name up in lights,
Headlining: POVERTY and the BLUE COLLAR MIDDLE CLASS.
We find ourselves symptoms.