We don’t
know whom to blame, but into view
have just
arrived three semi-thoughts, synaptically
entangled,
packed as if prenatally into a black egg sac
inside
the mind, seemingly befuddled, huddled
in an awkward
binding, as if shorn of hope (as well
as
hair) that they would ever find the unimpeded air:
.
as if too
wrapped already in too many erring bands
of
over-qualifying strands to ever know the whispered
soft
embrace of atmosphere on so much as a tiny
swatch
of unencumbered hand or foot or face.
No
wonder they looked so forlorn: that is, if they were.
We stirred
to think we’d got it wrong. They handed me
.
their essence
in a drawing, and bade me turn it
upside-down.
Whereby their purpose may have been
revealed.
Either each reversal instantly had healed
what I
was sure had had be an injury to self: or their
furtherance
did not depend upon the safety of residing
on a
sturdy shelf, which taken from them would not
.
after
all destroy their chance of profitable destiny.
“Why are
you drawn to the Abyss?” they wished to know.
“Why do
you think there is one?” (There wasn’t?)
“Do amounts
to Doesn’t which bears striking similarity
to Do.
Nothing isn’t nothing. What could nothing be?”
Silly
me. (and Whoa! Nothing rhymes with nothing!
.
I checked
no less than RhymeZoneDot.ComLand,
which rules
Synaptic Sooth and Friction in the ether
of the
Internet, to see. Must be true. They say it’s true.)
But
those three enigmatic semi-thinking creatures
weren’t
through. “Upside-down or downside-up
or sideways,
skinny bald and hairy human thing, you
.
didn’t
draw our portrait. We, including you, drew you.
You
and I and I and you and that third mystery who’s
joined
us from wherever Over There is. (There’ll always
be a
third to turn the Company of Two into a bee-loud
Three crowd).
We are the Solipsistic Trinity of Me.
Except
we’re not a solipsism, Charlie, are we?”
.
Something
tells us Charlie is our name.
We don’t
know whom to blame.
.
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