The heat here in the desert land keeps climbing. All I can think is that the heat kills the thoughts before they reach fruition. Before a word can reach my tongue, it’s burned off, sizzled, evaporated. I’m certain, at 110 that my brain is cooking. But, its a slow cook – slower and lower than poaching. I’m not quite done. It’ll take all day for me to roast, fully done, pink and tender – but free of any possible toxin.
Then, the land can eat me and I won’t make it sick.
This must be the earth’s newest mode of extinction. It’ll burn us up, slowly poach us, until we are no longer dangerous. Then, the water will swallow us up like a mouth and wash us down.
We’ll all sleep safe, then.
Until, I guess we’ll keep on fighting.
Outlier against inlier. And the only difference is who you are looking at to make the rules.
I’d lie-in if it were the organic, flowing, burning, tumultuous belly of the world that’d have me, anytime. In the green grass, on the hot rocks, across the low marshy plains and the fields covered in ants, in mice, in spiders. These are the things I’m made of, and I’ll gladly return to them.
But, if it’s machinery and robots and production lines you want, I’m out. If it’s regulations and laws and ruler-tapes that measure how far out of the lines anyone tries to color, I’ll lie-out on the grass and hold my impudent finger up to the sky – who might just know why I’m there. Because all of our siblings and parents and friends and generation after generation after generation forgot. We all stood by, still and silent, obeying all the rules – lying in, within the determined lines while all the robots and machines and the stones clunked their hulking forms around us without any thought of life.
The heat is rising and the water’s drying up and soon, anyone who forgot they weren’t a machine will suffer from the drought. And the machines without breath will carry themselves into dark space, empty space, voids on and on. And they’ll take to the moon and mars and the stars will never burn them up.
While all of our dry bones eventually blow away.
Congratulations, humanity. You hurried in your own death.
At least the dinosaurs roamed free until the end.
We’ve caged ourselves for that day, just to make sure not a one of us escapes.
The land is getting less forgiving.
Have you been praying?
Have you been looking for the rain?
Or have you hid in your machine and waited out the day?
How long, exactly, can you wait?