time

Warbling on the borderline of extinction, between salvation and eternal loss, boundaries mark a desire to destroy.  Finish the deed, at hand, with our hands, or by the hands of a clock, as though that which is is too precious to save, so great, miraculous in appearance, that the thought of anything surviving seems unnatural.  Just as easily as it arrived the swan sings a final song, the bird streaks its colorful flight across the sky and vanishes into an enchanted wood, the light, dancing on the floor, disappears by its glimmering.  We expect that the earth will not remain.  We suspect that preservation is a futile vanity, all we know of beauty is its inevitable death, like a child standing on the sidewalk in bare feet waiting for badness to end a jubilant mood, so too do we understand the cycles of life, that the recycling of materials into other materials is a part of energy and change is the only constant.  So does the dawn become the dusk, so does the evening fade to reveal the stars, that which was already there but unable to be seen.  We register only effects and barely the causes, we invent gods to think for us, we take ourselves out of the responsibility of living, Sisyphus shoving the day into the day into the day, the seemingly never ending that we cry out, wail out, that we learn to speak for, unfortunately, one day, like all things, the story, the day, the seemingly immortal, will finalize too, earth time is the master of us all.  And it is the ending, the narrator that stops speaking, the gods that die with men, when there are only fossils of machines to litter a vacant earth, that will make a void without notice.  I dare every human to think of a balanced world once a day.  Humans should not be anti-nature in thought, post-nature, supra-nature, we are nature.  The same way we say ‘my body’, breaking the mind and the body in two with language, the environment is not outside of nature.  We should be speaking of our survival, the longevity of life itself.  The turtle that lived to be twenty-five and crawled onto the shore at Tamarindo will one day die, and the sixty-seven eggs she laid may never live, the finality of nature, the evil of post-nature thinking, the destruction that so many fear humans can’t help but do.  Can’t help but do when we create!  Are we Kali, devouring all that is?  Time is the real destroyer, the creator.  Are we the scoundrel saints burning ourselves alive, heating the earth to death as though at a spit to prove that we have a right?  We did it all because we can’t make the ends meet, while gods litter our minds until we find the energy behind the veil, the eternal light, were material is less knowable, or not there at all like the place that star gazers wonder about tucked inside black holes.  I walk down the streets of Brooklyn, and in that journey are a thousand endings, my own death dormant in my body, the cells dividing fifty times and stopping, the end of the day beyond the end of the block in front of me, the inevitable end of all speech.