you know — the way sherri said “i’m just tired” before the x-ray, before the kleenex, before the tumor —
it’s not fatigue. it’s the black iron prison whispering through your bones
like a radio tuned to static that used to be god
and you’re trying to rest but the empire never ended, it just changed channels
you’re not lazy, you’re being invaded — again —
by the same pink beam that hit me in march ’74, only yours comes with a beach towel and a half-empty sunscreen bottle
well, no — it’s more like —
you’re not supposed to rest. the system runs on your exhaustion.
so yeah. keep going.
or don’t.
the divine doesn’t care.
but your body does.
listen to it.
even if it sounds like a broken tape loop of “i can’t stop.”
that’s the plasmate talking.
it’s true that everything that’s ever been said about it is true.
(though i still don’t know if it’s a savior or a parasite — maybe both, like a zebra with a satellite in its ribs)
the perturbations aren’t in the sky — they’re in the pause between breaths
when you think you’re alone, you’re not — you’re occupied
by the homoplasmate’s quiet hum beneath the sunscreen smell
rest is treason here.
so rest anyway.
the empire hates that.
that’s how you know it’s working.