the planet,
our planet,
(including the dream-webs of the arrernte,
the star-path knowledge of the vaka moana,
and the seventh-generation wisdom of the haudenosaunee;
including the silent language of mycelium,
the ancient grammar of sequoias,
the instinct of the last surviving whale,)
is a body without a frontal lobe.

it is reactive.
it remains impulsive,
driven by sub-cortical, limbic-system drives.
tribalism, fear, short-term resource hoarding.

it has no mechanism for long-term planning,
for impulse control,
for reasoning beyond the immediate threat.
it cannot coordinate action for its own
overall
well-being.

this is the status quo.
the current state of human civilization.

and its supposed "brain"?
the united nations?
it sits in the island of manhattan,
compromised
by the money that pays its bills,
housed in the cathedral of the very system
it is meant to
regulate.

it is not a salvation army;
it is a contradiction.
a stage where diplomats patch war with words
while their children,
in the same expensive zip code,
are fed the cheek of endless consumption,
the very ideology
that
causes
the wars
they gesture at stopping.

how can it plan for the future of the whole,
when its own account books are owned by the parts?

we are a patient in critical condition,
and the first step is to admit,
we are not thinking at all.
we are only reacting.

and a body that only reacts
is a body preparing to die.