Rest home

The 1.7 mile circle is a charade.
It’s not even really a circle,
jutting in and out here and there is it does,
but it does return to consume itself endlessly,
so the same effect results.
It gives the appearance of movement and travel
but remains no different than the wheel in the cage.
Yet I meet up with it every night at 8 PM.
The only choice – left or right -cheers variety.

There are orange trees lining the way,
fenced in,
as is any and all green space,
punished into forced exile, containment –
fragile as your grip on the lie of permanence.
Don’t touch, wait to die, pretend you won’t.
Lie to me.

Running in the circle is the only time I leave the home.
Seeking fresh air, finding artificial scents meant to please –
spring fresh traded for Spring Mountain Mist ™,
fake and cauterizing,
beseeching any sense of reality,
of how we could act and interact with our environment.

And so we run on, finding ourselves exactly where we were.

November 24, 2011