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'
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ReplyDeleteDah great thought provoking writing as always. I am very impressed!
ReplyDeleteThank you Mark!
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