Mycelium of Loss

Many mushrooms launch spores from basidia…which are jettisoned with enough force to throw them inches away from the mushroom. One scientist measured the force at 25,000 Gs, approximately 10,000 times the force experienced by the space shuttle astronauts escaping the gravitational pull of the earth to obtain orbit.

Petrified still. You swept away.

Why’d it drag us both along? Petrified: feel nothing, remember nothing. Heart, driftwood.

I broke an inner silence with sound. Can you hear music in the fuzz? If words could touch you across space, or move a few atoms in your breast, do you feel these? How’s it been with you?

Writing more sin. Damaging across time with a few mean strokes of a pen. What about this made up life? We slid together for a time like people in a dream. Then departed. Now you turn up like chance — bricks in a wall, the shape of a crowd, a group of notes.

Dim’s the past. Sad tonight and can tell no one. The words would slip and tumble vulgarly from my mouth, hollow and thoughtless, tumbleweeds. Spoken and guessed with phantom appreciation.

Can you have gone? Will people fold you up? My best friend flickers out. The glow of other lights shines her away; she vanishes behind the stalks of others. I go from where they sway in groups, their glow faintens. A city in the ocean.

Have I told you about my underground dreams? They are forlorn and beautiful as all burial earth. Abandoned tunnels: a staircase that goes down: and down and down forever in networks. How can I find my way up? Why am I trapped in the earth? I trapped and buried you too.

Rocks. Pulled and cast about, pushed out of the earth and rinsed, tumbled, and chipped before being bashed into atoms.

You could crack me with a touch. A comforting ghost with ghost-wishes and ghost-thoughts.

I speak not because I need to be understood but because I must fill my abstruse and abstract presence with sound. Is this who I am? an abstract dreamer detached and insulated from life by fear, emptiness and material?

I match my life to images trickled down from other lives. A lie.

Time runs out, b, it closes these words.

What can I say? Cried but words are as cold as stones.

Here is quartz.

San Francisco 2018

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