Lightning’s business is to devastate –
an immensity of pressure gets sufficiently
obstreperous to slash at what’s restraining it
to wrench it past itself and leap with it into
a chasm through what I imagine is exactly like
orgasm. I imagine this because I want it to feel
really, really good – to something anyway.
I am accused of trading only in hyperbole.
Everything’s the most to me, the best to me,
the fullest or the emptiest, the most exacting
test to me of anyone’s perceptual acuity – my
tic of a reliance on an excess of exaggeration
only indicates vacuity – to anyone, at least,
who’s not the least like me, which no one is.
It’s this. I’ve never healed. I’ve not been cured.
I haven’t ever felt the least assurance from
a single source that anything’s okay. Okay’s
a form of stasis. For which there is no basis.
The only cure I can construe is to exalt
and to exult in this – to be stunned by one’s
unknowing. How can one ever take a single
thing for what it thinks it is? It’s never normal.
There is no normal. There’d have to be a thing
exactly like another to support reporting
it was normal. There is only the immutability
of mutability. I don’t think I ever found this
terrible. I could only think it was inordinately
fun that everything’s the best, the worst,
the strangest and completely unforeseen,
the only one – another glimpse into a spasm
that can change the whole shebang again
and always does, will always do, and all of it
if you are paying it attention alters you,
kicks you out and through another door.
What else can it do? What else are we for?