(You Are Here) Square One
In this hologram that is your head
each part reflects the whole, which is to say,
there's nowhere in your head that you can go
to get away—the photos in those empty
furnished rooms will dog you night and day—
your ersatz afterlife will be a loom
on which they'll weave the shroud-like mantle
of your guilt. They cannot tolerate this careless
disrespect you show, this listless disregard for all
that you and they together built now falling into ruin.
You are here. Not there in the backlit glow
of a megamultiuser simulation. The shades
don't really care for life within a made-up life.
It really doesn't go to anywhere except square one
past the last level. You know in the deepest lair
of your back brain that they're right.
Life in its cruelties just isn't fair.
They yank you back into their clamoring memories,
the only link that counts. You are here, they say,
no matter what you think.