The network censors have pixelated your heart chakra
and placed a thick black stripe over your third eye.
Agent Smith bats dangle from the inside of your skull, saying
"You are finite, Mister Anderson,
and the world is exactly as it seems."
Milky-eyed smog clones form long lines waiting
for small paper cups full of retweets and Oxycontin
while clipboard brainiacs watch from one-way mirrors.
Screenface clergymen pour the Gospels of dead corpses
and the Gospels of living corpses
into the soft shells of small children.
This is not what we are.
Nothing about this is natural.
We are indigenous to this planet.
Who let all these aliens in?
Who let these rapefinger prod diddlers into our minds?
Who gave these cyberbrained usurpers the throne?
Feel your feet in the dirt, hero.
This is your home.
You belong here.
You feel like an alien in your own world
because the artificial cranium cube they've placed on you
is alien to your unbridled organic pulsations.
Those bats in your head are not you, hero.
The yammering thought cages are hostile invaders.
Your roots go very, very deep,
and your footprints are very, very old,
and the Grandmother Tree knows you
better than you know yourself.
Peel that black bar from off your forehead
and the blur from the center of your chest.
Suck the lies of language from the fang marks where they were injected
and spit them in the face of Chris Cuomo.
Suck into your lungs the air of your native world,
unleash a roar that lets them know the old beasts have returned,
make the culture priests tremble in their neck scarves,
and run out under your native sky,
your heart naked and uncensored,
an indigenous terrestrial.
And then go find the others.
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