content

 

content is only a complex mirror reflection.

everything we have harvested into content

is now the capture of clues as to who we are.

yet, nothing about this content has status, 

except that it is humanly assigned.

content is ever the massage about us.

we have naming as a form of conquer.

once named, it is primarily in our domain.

foolishly we become wardens 

of goods, gear, equipment, effects,

otherwise possessions and eventually junk.

sentencing stuff to usage, storage, 

ownership and account.

every discovery leads to human ownership,

either of the mind or hands on.

oxygen is almost the only freeloader in our world.

we have the constant disarray of content describe us.

we are the endless crayons of ownership on display.

we can't get enough of too much yet we do.

all of the practices of content bind us,

the hunt, the procedures of purchase,

the placement of prominence, 

the eventual attention paid,

the usefulness migrating into storage,

the rendering of the props of projection maintained,

the sweet memories met in the face-offs,

and the way that external experience 

is ever the merger.

content is ever the prop-material 

of human expression,

is ever the dumb-down of context expressed.

yet, content is a secret provider, 

a calligraphy of handling, method and motive,

a concealed script of spent feelings for then

that thrive concealed in the static 

and stoic's face that content blandly offers.

even beyond finger prints and DNA samples,

content buries the human emotional truth,

deeper than shadow 

and more profound than truth told.

content is like money,

as if only the deepest emotional truth 

could legitimately be expressed

by being of bought and sold . . .