Now That You've Made It Up

Today you feel the gnawing
clawing small compulsion
to get on with it – as if
the Universe had suddenly
decided it was finite –
and you had to reach the end
of something now: perhaps
the hunger is mammalian:

gotta have salami or a nap
or sex or the approval
of the pretty, popular and rich
to satisfy an atavistic itch –
ennobled with enigma though
it’s really biologically driven
greed: no seed of insight,
philosophic genesis or lofty dream –

but merely scrabbling little puffs
of body-steam: involuntary
avaricious blips and gaseous
schemes. Perhaps you just arose
just now not to arouse
the clouds of the dimensions
of your mind to find a deeper
sense of what it means

to be here but because if you
don’t make stuff up there
there won’t be much to see here
you could tolerate. Perhaps
reacting to that urge is all you have
to keep from going mad. And yet –
now that you’ve made it up –
it doesn’t seem so bad.

.