Monday, November 25, 2019

Instead of Moving On

Let’s start mesmeric underground
events whose purposes remain
oblique, but irresistibly alluring.
Let’s go about the business of
insuring we are potentates who
commentate upon the finished work:
which means let us obliterate all
notions of the future and the past
and place our faith in the repast of –
no, not now – but some condition so
beyond the powers and the realms
accessible by our prefrontal cortices
we’ll only sense it through the schemes
of mitochondria whose life in us
insures we live. Let’s infiltrate
the earth, and scream at the indignity
of birth. Let’s give and undergo
and interleave. Let’s be the grieving
residue of all who’ve gone. Let’s put
the lid on rhyming that with dawn.
When we are done, instead of moving
on, let’s fall luxuriantly deeply into
sleep, and dream of having something
we might actually one day find
inside ourselves capacity to keep.

No comments: