Can’t get there from here.
The disease of the present is engaged
in staging a coup against possibility.
We live in a bubble, a sphere
caught up in the tendrils of a strange
conspiracy of sentimentality.
From here and now no exit.
We’ve been doing it this way forever.
Rock walls on three sides
and electricity all the way to the ocean.
It’s the scream of the home on the range
as inevitable as paternity.
The prophet led the children of the future
across the muddy river of cheering.
It was like watching television
enthusiasm completely scripted
on the cliff’s edge prepared to plunge
a hundred feet down into depravity.
I had my offspring and raised them
to fill in these sinkholes and rescue us.
I told them about the top of the mountain
from where the clouds could be commanded
and somewhere else can be attained.
Can they get there from here?