The distance between expanding curves is vexing.
Consider what is lost
across lines primed for transoceanic dispatch;
in our acceptance of the mainstream map
of this binarised earth.
We can’t extend, can’t translate or erase the borders
add or subtract entity from global process
or the democratising caste of fibre optics.
Migration, complete and pending, has our passage marked.
Some narratives defy their introductions. We pastiche
the prolificacy of Balzac, adding detail
to the detriment of action, forgetting what we signify.
Arcs occur, counter to the cut of extant prose
we recount boldly, without depleting.
From time to time, preconceptions emerge to define us
but how little they contribute to our final shift; to
The weak see a future developed by category, sure to
employ no more sound than thunder. But we’ll have
damage to spend, uselessly and well, to stop the world
inscribing: to gesture to those imperfectly alive.
Image: Lines / flickr
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