Moving -
at a great height,
at all times:
threadbare,
rapunzelled -
too many variables,
too much sheath,
no sword:

i can't lie
though you will and do,
by the by:
i always run from the other shoe

ill seek knowledge of the gods
and burn at my own hand

my mind stalks my heart
in an empty brown school-bus,
watches it undress
staring, jeering

i can't help it:
i hate you us all.
you've we've done as much as a beaten child
but less than the proverbial hypothetical scorned

pillows and blankets and
baskets and chalices and -
funeral laughter - cackling,
like Mephistopheles' fire, crackling

skin so thick to inspire
a tree trunk's envy
o, cold and forsaken sensitivity:
how does the seed bring the rain
and laugh in doubt's face?

but these are mystical questions
i have no need for them
a bayonet pen to my throat -
and all of humanity watching

watching. they do
"do" - in their own way.
but, also, all over
all art and science,
all that is worthy of Man.

She sobs, testifying
in a shrouded, dank courtroom begging,
her killers,
however powerful,
no matter their entrenchment and multiplicity:
be
put
down.

groping at the mirror
like an infant towards anything
or an
epiphanic horizon-hating helio:

i wonder why i
don't remember my dreams --
vacuous black snowflakes:
o, will i ever catch their nothingness?

these palpable privations tumble downward
visible only to my
unpryable third eye.
i don't look anymore,

but sometimes
some Me
somewhere
- I'm not in the loop -
will show home movies
of his dream realities
and remnants will reach this
cogito's city limits:
terrifyingly earnest and pure,
my breached forgetfulness
puts happiness on a milk carton

descartes' evil god lives within
me.
it has written, edited and
re-written the book on me.

he is a contrarian:
for happiness is not sought,
but, rather,
the greatest possible sorrow
for the ever singular Me of tomorrow.

and i am most certainly to blame.
i know the location of every empty throne
and that these moments pass
for which i can never atone.

it's not that i
dont know where my interests lie;
i'm a master theorist:
my chair's arm is scalding.
but a philosophy is primally a thought
disconnected from action
by a wide emotional chasm.

i disagree with philosophers
that will look to their peers
for human nature:
all that's there is us,
no human being as such,
only the hands of our time and place,
like Jesus' Anglicized face.

"when i think
that i can't blink
without writing:
nothing happens.

the meaning-stuffed-mind
sits satiated
upon its toilet-throne -
erm, chair
- in consternation
linguistically, neurally, constipated:
where's the _________ fiber?
so that my feelings may pass
so that i may feel the cleanliness and solitude
of an enematic colon.

alas -
more marination needed
more time for the parts of my whole
to write their reports,
talk to witnesses -
or: more time.
just: more time."

"what is the sheer passage of time
but the heroic villain,
the will to ignorance?"

"NO!

we must choose -
whether sedentary, on a paved road or
with a machete in the brush.

And so it is with my salty blue pen and blood-lined paper:

I can't control that
I can't write when
I think I should.
But I can accept it,
Waiting for release,
Enjoying the suffering,
That only precedes meaning."

"... "

"No,
We can."

the best Happens:

it does not want.
it does not equivocate.
it does not project, simulate,
extrapolate:

unified - not-sliced-and-diced
- skilleted -
it simply is:

willed but not forced
surreal yet natural

i'm not a man for all seasons:
springs and summers are bottoms up
even falls mostly enthrall;
but winters have long, spitefully introspective youths:
terribly meaningful brief bursts of
awareness,
acceptance,
immediately preceding paradigmatic shifts;
but this:
winter-but-not-winter,
spring-but-not-spring,
fall-but-not-fall,
this clipped wing, peg-legged sprinter,
modernity,
where our mental bris stays for dessert
until we look down and see curly hairs

where:

instinct's under quarantine and observation:
for fear
their superiority is originarily arbitrary,
their morphogenesis obsequious,
their self materially, annoyingly, inchoate;

it strangles everything natural
in favor of artificial nothingness.

relativity frightens,
absolutes somnambulate