Chatting With Other Selves Poem by Atef Ayadi

some diasporas
never experienced
anything but
the relic of civilization.
they do not know
what is life
is
and what is a tree is.
worse, they claim
they are the source of
knowledge.
i call it,
living in hell,
while waiting for paradise.
i have been
myself
a single reference diaspora,
a moving island,
a crawling organism,
a self propelled automata,
a plastic bottle in weathered ocean.
i add
sometimes blue sky,
sometimes it is cloudy,
sometime it snows,
and sometimes it rains;
so it looks romantic and positive
(the blue pill every advertiser uses
when zombies wake up or want to leave their dark tunnel slash cave.)

i want to leave all these
boring
clumsy
subject a side.
my only way to be resolved
is to put something out,
inside a jar or a bottle of plastic.
glass is preferable.