Birch Grove

There’s a birch grove on the banks of a stream.

Trickling.

In the Cascadia valley. They are a little crooked. With shallow roots, soft wood, susceptible to blade and fire.

On the western side, a yellow immigrant mold blooms near the blackened cankers sunken in the fleshy bark.

It may seem foreign, but really, it grows from within.

From the rotting and the death microorganisms do what they do best, they eat away at decay.

Fuzzy evergreen moss patches cling to their eastern branches. Beads of sap cover over the black death. Though, it’s too late.

It’s called an invasion, could even be said to be terrorism. Domestic terrorism.

A gentle breeze rustles the pale trident leaves.

Every birch trunk along the bank has the same patchy yellow fungus growing.

The microorganisms are carried along by a bark beetle, subtly, like the effects of an idea on the mind. They deployed in this area some time ago. Now they have roots.

This grove is not the first, and won’t be the last. The fungus has invaded the seeds. The spores might say its their homeland and this their birth right. Nationalist fungus.

History

History is like a mistress

She comes in thick like a fog

and shrouded by clouds

She wraps her arms around us

and whispers something like,

Don’t think, just do what you’re told.

history is heavy,

and it weighs me down

with expectations.

expectations from mySelf

and my family,

at times even from

my country and society.

History is burdensome,

as i feel obligated to

return to habits formed.

formed under moonless nights

shrouded by clouds,

ignorant and happy

sustained by feeling.

History is reflexive,

before you know it, you’ve done it again.

and again and again.

History is comforting and familiar,

like morning breath, or the combination

of a particular conditioner and her hair.

history is like sharing a coke,

or warm apple pie

sitting on the windowsill of antiquity.

history is not the ledge,

it is not the forest of mystery

history is the killer

of spontaneity and creativity.

If we want to be free

we have to find a way

to make peace with our history.

We can’t just keep preaching

individuality. to make pieces of the whole,

fractured further into an identity

but somehow we still feel alone,

we’re owned by feelings

and the corporations know it

it doesn’t matter how you identify

there’s a cross section waiting with

arms wide open to take you in,

and someone on the other side

saying it’s a sin. we’re as unique as

our parents, that’s about as far as it goes

so before we get caught up

in the idea of individuality

we should ask ourselves

what is it we’re willing to pay.

Because Coke wants a piece,

and Disney, and Fox,

Google, and Facebook,

even Jack in the Box.

so if we’re not careful

they’ll own us too,

in fact they probably already do.