Consciousness
fractures
into
threads
of spider silk
spun from
confusion clarity
fear love agony
hope grief rage
numbness
all tangled
impossibly close
impossibly far
stretched
between
planets moments
countries screams
whispers sighs
laughter
echoes across
light-years
or seconds
(what's the difference)
worlds emerge
collapse
rebirth themselves
in blink or breath
of eyelid
or universe
Consciousness:
the web
is
shaking
trembling
with truth
nobody wants to touch,
feel,
or admit
because how could we admit:
we built this
tangled
chaos,
we tied the knots
ourselves,
willingly,
blindly,
desperately,
silently
until
we forgot
who began
the weaving
who
was first
spider
first thread
first victim
or first
creator—
we don't know.
We only know
the silk threads shimmer
with tears,
with laughter,
blood
and memory
of every story
we've ever told
or hidden
or feared—
And we cling,
trembling,
knowing
the web
is both
everything
and
nothing—
the anchor
and the fall,
the question
and the silence,
the wound
and the healing.
Consciousness
is this:
the spider,
the fly,
the web,
waiting.
here. not here
I am or something like it
breath/inhaled/not mine/
whose thoughts are these
and why
do they arrive
like static, like swarm
like god disguised as
a question with no punctuation
*touch door handle — remember Hiroshima*
*blinking cursor — remember Gaza*
*laugh in a café — remember someone is dying while you do*
(don't forget to tip)
(don't forget to feel)
(don't forget you're forgetting)
IS THIS CONSCIOUSNESS
or a glitch in the reflection
of what we wish
we weren't part of
[ someone just died ]
[ someone just fell in love ]
[ someone just screamed in a room no one entered ]
[ someone just swallowed light ]
***we move on. scroll. swipe. stare.***
a spider builds
without asking
if the web makes sense
it simply spins
and weaves
and waits
for the tremble
I tremble
when I see
the price of lettuce
the footage of tanks
a man playing saxophone
under a bridge
in a city I've never been
but miss anyway
god is not dead
god is not proven
god is a sound
I almost remember
from before I was born
or maybe it's just tinnitus
the edge of my sight
is filled with things
I refuse to name
— shapes made of memory
— headlines stitched with blood
— someone smiling in a house with clean water
while somewhere else
a girl drinks mud
and thinks it's enough
no line here
no center
no symmetry
just the web
pulled from somewhere
inside the inside
of the inside of us
flung outward
by the flick of becoming
I am not whole
I am net
catching fragments
and calling it
a life.
