the identity in the machine

these are the days that twist
symbols into impressive threads,
each “I” seeks the likeness of each other,
to hate or to love it
or to care less.

I watch the definitions glide in and out
like clouds and the air they breathe:
identity is the code in their machine,
even clever enough to preserve butterflies,
as paper men attached hold their hands,
and refuse to gaze upon them as they die
chanting:
“we’re in this together, friends, all together”

everyone wants to believe
for fear of the lonely nights
who’d fall too hard upon them,
the dark holds too many questions,
too much that cannot be known,
nothing that can be spoken.

yet hearts slow by an unknown black star,
beads on a string around the sun,
dancing for only the breath of billions,
of moments, days, time on its own time,
this life and all the next to come,
they hold onto every moment,
as if to hold their breath,
and fill their emptiness with opinions,
as if images were life.

but a man is quiet when he’s real,
a true man is real when he is still,
like pieces of sand in the desert,
raindrops disappear into the waters
and settle into the bosom of Earth,
thirsty for her contours,
and so eager to disappear inside her,
to escape the loud and logical days
the chanting of all for one,
self-inclusive noise with something to prove
cat calls and screeching and birds that whoop,
who write long books and theories,
who want to swallow your great mystery,
your beautiful silence,
all that’s true
all that’s inside of you.