In the photocopied forest,
where origami birds shed origami feathers,
where duplicates with papered eyes
riffle through the files of our dreaming,
where carbon copied life is rampant,
Rosalyn shows me a quick start guide
for human prototypes,
their care and feeding, how to keep them far
from wheels and fire,
and recirculant mechanics.
Our bonsai minds are caged and shaped,
replicas in miniature of something greater:
trains, the sky, and lightning.
They call the parasitium a paradise, they tell us we’re all safe beneath its dome, but I’ve heard rumors there’s another land outside—if we can only loose the ties of our dependency—a place where each wild star might cast its light.
By day I wander in the markets, stop before the soap box preacher who swears that only those without a heart are truly pure, that they alone will know a rational salvation in the world beyond the plastic.