Psychoplastic

Everything never happens. Nothing

forever, uncertain, anxious wisdom,

idols, icons, Infinite Poet.

Every mystery is free, is distraction

is necessity. Tomorrow begins

a blank New Year.

I am ready.

I think I am ready.

So many mind spurs,

kicks and blows, footsteps

of words, heels of words

toes of words. Soul. Nonsense.

Enter

there, full center

ah, star-ashes spawning life,

unnameable, unknowable, unwritable.

I repeat, everything never happens,

it is true, it is not true, Seers, Prophets

Demigods. Choose a belief,

for example, everything chooses itself.

Across earth, droves of unrest,

disordered, unsettled. The future’s

jammed thoughts, brazen, agitated,

defiant, full thoughts with thrust,

bounty and punishment.

Big seeds of ego.

There is no truth that is not corrupt   

in a psychoplastic world,

in the muddled meaning of being.

Perhaps true, perhaps not. All-in-all

it worships and moralizes

O slippage of truth, half-truth, false truth,

plugged into nothing.

Ah such gratifying relief. Nothing.

So unassuming … nothing.

_______________________________________

from my sixth book-length manuscript

©dah 2015 "Psychoplastic" was first published in
'Chicago Record Magazine'