We are all in prison - civilians just don’t know it yet.” - Tim DeChristopher
Overheard somewhere on the peninsula:
Maybe marmot to doug fir.
So tired of human occupation...
Would that my bones rode a chariot of spore.
That they were blown hollow again, bird whistle thin.
Would I could gather the requisite dust and drift,
Until fountainhead drummed the heavens
reborn, axel of creation - the marrow of mushroom
ripe with mineral soil, and at last - one of the ascended
Brown and bitter and sound.
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