we shit here,
and shit over there.
we die here,
some over there.

we birth new life
to carry on
what we've hauled
since time began,
nature's middleman,
unpaid intern,
the mycelium's
temporary turn.

carrying loads,
mules and ghost carriers.
logic demands
a mule in the end,
"means justify the means."

drink it and see;
the futility is the freedom.
the cargo was always
your own bones.

someone once said,
"sex? fun? like a mule."
so be it,
or leave it be.
(it must've been
that quebecoise woman.
she knew the weight
and laughed.)

my final
irrelevant to relevant revelation,
(of course, from my own dirt,)
the hands were always yours.
the burden? yours.
the mule? you!
me?
just freed
from free will at last.
the laugh?
hers at me,
mine at it all.

now carry on.
i don't swipe screens.
i swipe skin,
the warmth, and
the being.
the whole damn package.
no taxes.
no debts.
just this.