Nomadic Perspective
Channel: James Hill O'Brien
Date: 2017-08-23

[Full Text]

Displaced indigenous,
Looks like refugees in a homeland.

My generation trend is, 
Population in perpetual migration. 
There are entire cities under riot.
The urban catastrophe,
Is a man made disaster,
Spreads out like a cancer.
Slosh 
Ripple.
Spills out.
Ownership
Can't even claim myself
My participation is mandatory.
A product of this environment,
Recipient to the social welfare.

I'm paying rent for my mental state.
Like I forfeited my inheritance.
Clarity of this : mind-body-spirit.
In truth, the realest estate,
It is free and clear, empty space.
I am gasping for air, 
To inhabit the present.
To rise above
The stacks of future stresses and
Compounded past concessions. 

Consumption habits look like.
Allowances taken for granted.
Mandated to negotiate permissions, 
To take up space,
Make noise,
Even breathing 
Infringes on the liberty of an other.

Our apex is, 
Tragedy of the commons.
Complex conflicts 
In lifestyle choices,
Like abstract,
Economic extortion.

We wage fiscal coercion.

Amidst supply saturation,
And blatant exploitation, 
Of the human potential.

It is all about resource allocation.
Like the individuals self-interest 
Leveraged against the collective, 
In pursuit of Maslow's Hierachy of needs.
Dignity, crumbles.
Metropolis crowded.
Squish.
Squeeze.
Pop.
In the social sphere,
Every trespass feels.
Like eminent domain.
Like bragging rights over
A raped landscape.

Like shame and guilt 
Have become hereditary.
Uncomfortable in this skin.
Raw
I shrink.
Hide.
Shed.
Homefree.
Haunted.
Call it possessed.

Some days I wake,
Stirred violently from my dreams,
To find this body revolting.
Like at the depths of molecular expression,
Every cell has conspired 
In revolution to the celestial movements, 

Questioning the limitations 
Of autonomy, freedom, influence.
I am the chaotic resilience of my behavior choices.

The reason I run. 
Follow the trade winds

Merchant 
Creative class. 
Con-Artist. 
Traitor. 
Traveler.

Found myself in the orient,
English Isles,
Somewhere tip-toeing the Equator.

Kept heading south,
Spiraled out.
Fell off just above Antarctica.

Drifted with the Aurora Borealis,
And, harmonized to the perturbations 
In the stratosphere.

Nomadic Perspective :
The alter native dwelling in 
Consciousness unoccupied.