Thursday, May 10, 2018

Reading Belles Lettres in Front of Infinity

Okay, let’s opine for the sake of opining
we each have an incontrovertible soul.
Why do we picture it soulless, refining
itself into purity, like a divine crystal bowl
from which no mortal lips will have sipped,
much less guzzled until they were drunk from
what life was created to slip them: get ripped
by the cracks of the whips and the funk from
the actual – not strain to contain the invisible
putative Essence of our raison-d’être, 
as if that were factual? Where has our risible
Regent vamoosed to? Reading belles lettres
in front of Infinity, hoping at last for response?
Surrounded by all of his glazed-over ghosts
(what happened to cool, where was the Fonz?)
to which He, She, They, It were the hosts?
I’d rather eat stuffing
from chairs made of rat hair
than spend an Eternity bluffing
I hadn’t a place in my mind for despair.
My brokennesses make me whole.
Can’t think of one I would want to perfect.
If mysteriously I encounter A Soul
I shall counsel it seriously to defect.

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