When I think of the way I used to think about you, it’s a rebuke
to the mundane way I think of you now.
In those days you were an apparition
fantastical goat god and that brief relief from diapers
and the portable midden of culture that is this holy shit quotidian.
Our ancestors, ringed ‘round us like eyes in firelight
are amazed at our carts and our flying machines
the little man in the phone
and the big man on the ceiling
who can put carriages in the firmament that carry messages here and there.
They in their silence convey stupefaction nor can they believe our dailyness
feeding our carts with an elixir of monsters from the centre of the earth
so they can go fast in careful rows
They don’t suss the wonder of combustion while understanding very well
the long footrest makes it go.
My contemporaries on this earth have worn through novelty
come out on the side where all the natural dirt is;
all the glacial rocks flensed from the hide of our mother
ground down into grit are beautiful
mostly because they don’t have any fucking plastic in them.
And yes, I am still thinking of you; you are an overhead projection in my life
I’ll look up and there’s a different quote, since you are that quotable
projected on the ceiling. The next time I look it will be different, as you will be.
Back then you were always the same, and that just isn’t true any more.