Where You Must Be

You think that coming out of chaos

is the problem. What else could being 

bred by chaos do but to foredoom you

to unspeakability?  

Well, yes, that’s true. You were and are,

will always be, unspeakable. But leaking out

of that is what and where and how and when

the fun comes. Lacking definition, Chaos is

and has to be the triumph of disorganized

catastrophe – the only source of stuff

and nonsense in the cosmos adequate

to line up what you’ve got with what it can

infini-grab from its unspeakability to catalyze

the babbling rotting polyglot of you into

the singularly sensible persuasive lingual stream –

new sentience breeding sentences that gleam –

according to and by which you can tell yourself

you’re fine. Finally you’re finely calibrated

to combine the Apollonian divine with the chthonic

tonic hunger, lust and rage that seek to ravage

the meticulous and suck it back and back until

the Universe’s size again begins to near the other

side of One. This is God’s way, or so they say,

of having fun. How lonely he’d be otherwise!

What’s a “they”? What could an “us” be?

Now you’re where you must be.

(Are these the conversations you will

have in heaven or in hell? Who can tell?)

.