Poem about the metacrisis

We are sitting in concrete boxes
quickly glancing nature from our windows
about the weather in our Teams meetings

We sit in our separateness calling everything resource
(it was easier to domesticate a cow when it stopped being a being).
We created cool tech like plows and robots
and thought we are god


We started to treat everything
like machines
made out of parts,
with problems and solutions
and handbooks


It feels powerful to have boxes!
To shrink the world to spreadsheet with evaluation matrix,
make powerpoint presentations with bullet points


We divided humans into parts too
pushed them to narrow tasks with discipline specific language
Now we have psychiatrists sitting in tiny offices ticking boxes.
We have teachers sitting in tiny offices ticking boxes.
We have social workers sitting in tiny offices ticking boxes.
No-one is looking at the kid. 


I've been practicing my whole life to sit on a chair
without fidgeting
to be ticked normal,
to fit someones box
anyone's box
everyone's box.
Optimizing, accelerating, upgrading!
Trying to be
in a measurable way

Godlike human learnt only to invade
to move forward
it became a linear dramaturgy towards the climax. 
Expansion. Extraction. Calling growth good without stopping to ask why?
We forgot that a chart is a chart. A map is a map. 
We hop around GDP like it's the reality

is a monster we created
a tree is more valuable cut down 
a human more profitable popping pills than sitting under the tree 
No-one wants this.
No-one stops it.
It would be better to co-operate co-operate
but we defect defect
we fear
that if we don't cut the tree someone else will
if we don't create tech that will outbrain us, someone else will
so we carry on though we are burning


How can break it?
How can we shred the spreadsheet 
see beyond
I don't know.
No-one does.
It's the unknown
the unknown unknown 
there's hope

I'm laughing!
How hard it is not to be certain
my heart starts beating
I'm pleading for boxes.
But I can't unsee what i saw

I'm nature.

Inter-steeping, being with and within

can't step in the same river twice
Heraclitos is nature 
and the river
neither of them stays static or still.

I'm learning to accept i can't hold water in my palm, 
we'll unfold and remember a way of being
a poem

Being a kid on ice-skates
for the first time
trusting the wise body to find the balance
falling on the ice,
getting up again.

Dancing in the ruins of our certainty
and turning towards life