No Going, Only Coming

Skepticism might not have evolved so fast into contempt

had Ecstasy’s intentions not been so overt, so rash,

so absolutely unalloyed with mediation. Ecstasy alarmed

by its display of what you were quite certain was predation

which however never threatened any prey. It was as if

it ravenously craved to eat whatever it entreated, though

as soon as any yearned-for thing (and every thing was

yearned for) had approached its lips, it got a wet, unbridled

kiss. Ecstasy had very little outward truck with the Abyss –

although if you agreed to go with it you’d find its nth degree

pursuit would be to shoot you to the brink of going over

who-knew-what. Is there a But? Surely there’s a But. No.

Here is what we know: And! Ah! Therefore! Conjunctions,

interjections and conjunctive adverbs are its favorite parts

of speech: the words you didn’t know you reached for

when you uttered or you muttered or you growled or howled

and sprayed the whole wad of your vowels when you came.

Came, that is, of course, to orgasm – and soon, with ecstasy,

you’d find there was no going, only coming, and you lived

without quite knowing you were always being shown

a refutation of the negative. Only then could you begin to roam

beyond the spherical to the unbounded, roving past the kiss

to the ecstatic fission of Existence, the Abyss – blisses with

which Ecstasy is always having not-so-secret trysts. Ecstasy

is not a miracle. It’s the essence of the is. The Big Bang’s fizz.

But skepticism won’t be swayed by that, or any other nth degree

unbackable fiat, least of all a language which illogically asserts

what language cannot say that it can say. From Ecstasy’s

excesses, Skepticism is exempt. It knows another much

more gratifying way to get itself from day to day. Contempt.

.