Restive Septets Ponder Consciousness

Alter consciousness? Don’t falter at that altar:

absolutely! yes!  What is consciousness but

alteration? Affixing sense to fix this existential

mess? What else is success? It moves, ergo it is.

Not to prove intention, sentience, teleological

truth or solemn thought. It’s an onslaught, whose

glamour can’t be caught by grammar, though

. 

it can disturb, reverberate like verbs, though

not like love: smellier verbs like fertilize – though

not to realize the grandeur of creation – but

to carry out a mission of predation – sate

its hunger for more toward and untoward

impulses to lick and chew and macerate into

a gluey stew that it can use to fertilize itself.

. 

Catastrophe of any kind is also tasty, as it roughs

up all it belts, eviscerates and tosses into salad –

cowardice is more than valid as an acrid salad

sauce, dissolving off the flaccid fat of lust. Filter

all the middle distances we gaze into by reflex

through a fog into a drink to bring us to a brink

that consciousness can’t yet suss out: doubtless

. 

why it thirsts for it so badly that it’s often all it

thinks about. Alteration undermines the status quo,

though isn’t it the status quo? Not to say it tediously

turns in on itself reiterating surface play. Solipsism

lacks allure: no traction strong enough to make

us cease, be still and stay. What are sense

and nonsense, anyway? A collective of infinitives!

. 

To move, ingest, egest, to jest! – to blink at more

and more – test this festive alphabetic travesty –

assess its restive squiggles in the sand like these –

imagining they’re royal sonnets to show off like

precious bling, conjured by divinities expensively.

But every god is a static thing, and every king

is a pea. Consciousness has majesty.

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