Resilience V
Everything is a client of something. Even the birch
understands the power of the consumer (water, sun,
carbon dioxide). Nobody’s victim. It never whines,
I’m sessile. Mover and shaker, it does manufacturing
— yes, I can! — AND service. The birch has a brand
like Trenton, New Jersey. It makes; the world takes.
A patient on a ventilator is a client, vaxx and spend
the only way through this crisis. The birch will
innovate its way out of any pickle; the forest
is filled with Elon Musks. I never intended to get
into the business, but isn’t that what all dealers say?
I’ve got CO2 to offload and, lucky for us, the birch
is buying. Empathetic junkie with deep knowledge
of the underground economy, it’s not averse to sharing
with a nearby fir. I call it waste, not monetizing
your network. Might as well be needle exchange.
The birch must not have gotten the memo: mutual aid’s
moment has passed. A sucker is born every minute
in the forest. What’s the greatest show on earth, if not
drought, floods, and fire? A ticket-holder is a client.
Defer to the lap of popcorn, blue tongue, distracted
gaze. No clients better be harmed in the making.
We can’t afford to shut down the production.
* * * * *
Lying Flat
The young women leaned away from their desks and closed their eyes. “We don’t want to see ourselves in five years.” Tired of building their platforms, all the young people began to slump in their chairs. It dawned on them: their passions were brats in need of a time-out. Little by little, the youth slid to the floor, fell over like babies too wobbly to sit up. Supine, palms upturned, they cried in unison, “Lying flat is justice!” Never had they been so influential. Soon every office, coffee shop, crammed bedroom became a pop-up studio. Shavasana in the morning, shavasana at noon, shavasana all the live-long day. “No more wolf culture,” declared the youth. Stickers were distributed with the image of a possum which many wore on their forehead. One woman was overheard saying, “I want to eat oysters on my back like an otter.” This became a rallying cry for the resistance. But rather than speak aloud anymore, the youth brought their hands together over their chests: a rock in one fist and a cell phone in the other. They tapped the rock against the phone: click, click, click. Screens cracked but the young people did not leave their backs. Freedom wasn’t ringing. Freedom was the sound of living bodies lying like clappers without bells.