Tangled in Fuzzbox Squall

A dendrite explodes into tufted blue chenille.
I’ve lost touch with the spirit world.
A hip-critic stands, head enveloped within the upper blue-puff downy mildew.
The view tangled in fuzzbox squall mirrored in the underside of a limitless panorama of blue.
A headless body intones sibilant recitatives from an oscillating installation.
Wonder and irony are cheap, say the ground and the sky simultaneously.
Oh, for the love of annihilation, says your father’s father’s ghost.
What we have here is the world anew.
Luna or the Moon by any other name.
The bane of our limited language.
Our desire for proximity forever deferred.
Another road not traversed, another opportunity missed.
The Moon. Jejune. This month before June.
Will summer never come. (it’s here year-round)
Let’s hide behind this hallway wall.

What I’m Reading:

“We say that there is a climate emergency. But it is truer to say that there is a humanity emergency. The climate crisis is caused by us human beings, because we have forgotten the intimate relationship we have with nature. We treat nature like a resource, a thing to use without end, for profit and for our ascendancy. In this way we treat nature like an enemy.”

— Ben Okri / “A Sacred Place”