“...like when you ask a dream to give you more light...”
~David Allen Sullivan
Borges put us in time's labyrinths, spoke to
us about the immortals and histories
of infamy. Today, we should ask, what have
we become, what have we made of ourselves?
We surrender our dreams, ask for more light
in the darkness parading inside. I wake up
some mornings, observing how dead I am and
have been, chasing all evidence of untamed
ceaselessness. Infinity. It's built on light.
You only know it's there when your soul
blocks its path, throws a shadow. But is it yours?
Out there, do they see us as cephalopods,
as curious suspicions fighting good with
folly and plunder? I am charged with belief,
with admiration for some great character
to come unseen, sparking between the lines of
newspaper ink and ballets of truth swollen
on TV on streaming media in full
doses. Something may happen. I won't look to
Congress for that. I dream of light, a safe country,
we-ness working here. The animals are hushed
listening to us. They are more interesting,
so we bring them closer for common sense, love.
We deconstruct the fragment, take ourselves so
close to ruin's edge for a quick selfie, ask
AI to explain it. The distortions of
great writers made labyrinths for us. My quit
reality's still searching for a way out.