What’s the opposite of a capitalist. I’m you and you’re me but it seems strange. Ecofeminist. Seems, being the operative word. Progress versus connection. But if you’re me, what is odd—unfamiliar in the sense of foreign—is disconnection, a girl in striped pyjamas. We’re said to exist in flashes. You-me-you fight small scale development, me, environmental destruction. On-off we grow. Violence against women for one hundredth of a second, we’re here before we’re gone. Ad infinitum you fight the tree-hugger I become-with. Not me, you say. The outline of a woman flashing in and out of existence can be felt across oceans. More than, seared into corpus consciousness. Seconds after her disappearance from a point on the space-time continuum, the transformation of value into dis-. But you’re no expert, you say. But I’m a poet. Nothing can hurt you if you’re not really here. If not here, where. It’s romantic, you say, but I’m a compassionate capitalist. The way the sun sets on the river, dusk’s light, arcs of gold, shimmering waves at the back door. Tell it to our biodiversity. If not me, who. I want evidence, you say. I take off my clothes, stand before you naked. Here it is, non-Production. Weeks later you phone to tell me the dishwasher broke. You talk about the way my silhouette lit up moving shadows under a waning gibbous moon.
Jp Valery