Death in Cocoon
On collective isolation
Here on the precipice of hope my feet want to take flight — seeking respite from a bitter wind, a sullied light. Thoughts take shelter in the lee of cold stone.
Outlandish pirate slops drift in the sky of my dream, a fine and motley crew of ruffled doublets, dirty waistcoats, soiled breeches and cutlasses that live longer than the bodies they penetrate. Sunken ships of arcane treasure litter the floor of my memory…books eaten by fish or dissolved in currents becoming antique garbage, mental miasma.
Such unworthy detritus cannot compete with our modern debaucheries, carving the corpse of the earth into prime cuts of meat for grilling. Will we choke before launch, die in the cocoon?
People disparate and territorial, divided and subdivided, tiny enclaves simultaneously celebrating their collective isolation.
Even you said, “It’s hard to get up a show and push out hundreds of dollars in a town like this for twelve friends who already thought you were cool.”
Still, it’s home like the back of each hand, imprinted with endless maps in the mind’s eye. I’m the familiar rat, administrating bureaucracy inside the labyrinth. I never wanted it..but the washing machine gently clicks in the background and I know what I’m cooking for dinner tonight.
Much gratitude to Michael Hall for October’s prompt, The Prose Poem, which inspired this piece.
