On the Polarity of Memory Holes by Jim Joyce

In our nascent neo-geologic world, the memory hole
reverses its suction. Now there is only one small safe spot
in any room, still and still dry. Everything else swirls around
every which way, floor to ceiling, wall to wall to wall,
all underwater, swallowing the cool air out of the warm future.

We try to maintain a perspective, eyes upon the big picture,
yet any random past detail can contrive to be the end-all
heretofore. Amid rock’n’roll stones land-sliding, unbound
remembrances come to dominate, absorb even the best-kept plot.
We act like statues, freeze on the ice block to remain whole.

Rainforests burn and glaciers calve in a rush, no isle
of sanity left unsubmerged. Images on our living-room screen,
harp seals, polar bears or belugas cavorting, for a while
not too painful to watch. Then they too will seem obscene.


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