Squat and Rot

If Reality is what we wrangle into being
out of philosophical necessity –
we think we have to know what’s what –
well, squat and rot and I don't like it.

That is to say – although it is
a preternaturally sweet October day,
whose bright soft clarity appears to serve
as balm to all abrupt disparity

and angular distress – which seemed to
have arrived last night at my behest –
that is, until the sun came out, redressed
the balance, gave it rest – well,

maybe nothing happened after all,
I made the whole thing up and every tale
that I tell myself about my inner life
and what goes on out here is –

by inviolable definition – tall.
A little bit like Volleyball.
You plot your spot, and then you spike it:
well, squat and rot and I don't like it.