I can’t look at anything
in which I don’t project myself.
What can human thinking bring
to view except what’s on its shelf
already? What other
possible resort has it but
to play father, child, mother
to whatever thought it’s cut
from fabric it already knows?
I see a piece of quartz:
To know the word for it bestows
familiarity – a force
that I can wield with confidence
throughout incarnate life.
In fact, it masks incompetence –
I’ve not a clue how rife
it is with being I can’t speak of.
I can sit here sweating
with the block: indeed, I reek of
trying to imagine getting
anything I’m not. I can’t get
what I’m not. What then
can I see? What then can I let
you in to see, and when
will it become a revelation
worth the trouble to relate? Fuck
ineducable ignorance! I’m a station
where the brain-train stops, gets stuck.