I woke up to the sound of towers falling in my backyard. Ash and TV have clouded my vision ever since.
I woke up to the sound of spirits rising from a native burial ground like vengeful flowers blooming from seeds planted long ago.
I woke up to the sound of history books lying to me. I asked my teacher for an explanation. She said nobody objects to stories written in blood.
I woke up to the sound of proud African kings and queens screaming for justice, but their royal standing was not acknowledged by the secret keepers of the police state.
I woke up to the sound of a thousand internet conspiracy theories crystalizing into one collective headache hallucination, and still the truth remained unknown. The infinite depth of the rabbit hole is a hard red pill to swallow.
I woke up to the sound of CIA social media bots firing the first shots of World War III. Half the country boycotted Facebook; the other half joined ANTIFA and took up arms in Portland, where they briefly overthrew the government before being thrown into unmarked vans and taken to Guantanamo Bay or Epstein Island.
I woke up to the sound of a Hopi prophecy echoing like a fire alarm from the abandoned Los Angeles rooftops. The mansions had been reclaimed by nature and a single Hollywood producer remained, shivering in the corner alone.
I woke up to the sound of an ancient Mayan alarm clock radio racing to finish an unwritten Beethoven symphony while every Times Square billboard played a monetized George Floyd murder video on repeat. The revenue was funneled to Joe Biden’s secret lover, a dominatrix turning tricks inside tunnels beneath Denver Airport. They say she ran a helluva pyramid scheme.
I woke up to the sound of thirty-three alien spaceships hovering above my apartment. They asked to meet our leader; I said we didn’t have one.
I woke up to the sound of an old orange wizard tweeting the viral psychedelic meme apocalypse of reality into existence: a spell cast from a mobile phone. 4chan fake news fought TikTok witches while normies kept eyes glued to CNN, waiting for a socially acceptable opinion to repeat on Zoom calls.
I woke up to the sound of one hand clapping. The Buddha just laughed and looked away.
I woke up to the sound of Hare Krishnas chanting holy incantations on YouTube until the channel was suspended by Google on suspicion of hate speech. I searched the dark web for a bootlegged copy but all I found was fentanyl and stolen children shipped in Wayfair cabinets.
I woke up to the sound of an audiobook playing The Fall of America by Allen Ginsberg while my neighbors set their mouths and pineal glands on fire to protest the first amendment. “This is fine,” they said. I called the police and Jesus but both had been defunded.
I woke up to the sound of my Uber driver honking her horn to the beat of my nervous heart. We drove to the top of Mount Shasta to watch the last gasps of late-stage capitalism from a scenic view. She told me to take my clothes off because she wanted to touch something real. We made love in the backseat wearing face masks, not knowing each other’s names. I think she kept the meter running.
I woke up to the sound of QAnon quarantine fever dreams while my stomach or ego rejected the ayahuasca. The shaman poured another cup; I said I wasn’t thirsty and fell back asleep.
I woke up to the sound of phallic statues falling. Divine women and men stood together in the naked rubble of the patriarchy and forgave each other for inherited ancestral trauma. There will be no monuments where we are going, only lakes and mountains and trees and a sympathetic circle of equals humbled by the wonders of the universe.
I woke up to the sound of construction work on the new pyramids. There wasn’t a hammer or chisel in sight, only the great psychic OM from the minds and hearts of a generation of children freed from the heavy weight of history.
I woke up to the sound of my own heart breaking, like all things must, before they bloom.