Messy room with too many things?
Don’t panic. You can hide better among them.
Some ascended master will tell you to simplify
and get rid of all that stuff.
I say: load up. I say: get busy
making and buying toys. You ain’t no saint
and no one wants to look at you,
so disappear as deep as you want to in there.
And the gurus who tell you to take it easy on
the salt, fat, and inorganic chemistry
you put in your mouth? Ever notice how stretched
and unhappy they appear to be? Get fat on burgers
and fries if you so desire; screw the lectures
from the newly Ayurvedic and embrace what we’ve got here –
a culture staggering toward a new world devoid
of all we’ve grown to assume will remain extant forever.
The righteous scream at you for species die-offs
and cracking glaciers, and even though they’re right, know
that they’re mostly upset for themselves. The planet will die, they holler
and shout. Liars, deceivers, and bullshit sellers. This planet
will not die, regardless of what we do. Species will die,
we will die — but the planet, the great Connector Of All?
The planet won’t die. It’s just getting ready to twitch us off
like a particularly persistent mite. One flick and — WHOOP –
we’re gone like dodos and moderates. In five hundred years
it won’t even matter what we polluted or slew. We’ll be as embarrassing
as an old tattoo to the planet,
and just as easy to cover up.
So consume and collect and gorge and retch in the meantime.
You and the gurus are about to get cozy in the grave.
You and your stuff are about to get equally inanimate
and equally forgotten. Polar bears, honeybees,
the Dalai Lama, and you all together at last, finally
in agreement on one thing: that it was too late
the minute the first of us stuck its head up
over the tall grass of Africa and thought: mine.