Base Reality

The world’s not real. Nobody is.
I read it in The Guardian.

You, me, us, we all — playthings
of an advanced civilization.

Our kindnesses and feasts of love,
ardor and titillation,

our petty acts, evil thoughts,
our morbid fascination

all granted us as avatars
of a vast simulation.

Ok, I’m game to tease this out,
mind bent, not blown,

attempting to picture what I can’t
begin to imagine. I mean,

look around. Look where we’re at.
What harm in speculation?

Haven’t we been trying all along
to process the same information?

Plato, Nietzsche, Baudrillard,
the best brains of every generation

intent on mapping the distance 
between verity and creation.

I could sit here all day making worlds
and words with my thought machine

and my other one, here, hot like fire
under my palms: tool of reason

and eternal momentum. Which
room of the funhouse are we in —

hall of mirrors, each warped screen a
pane of truth, reflecting its inception —

what level is this — how soon ’til
game’s over and we start again?

Is this your hand I’m holding,
really, skin on skin,

or simulacrum? Does it matter,
really? It’s the warmest version.