Tough Stuff to Discuss

I live and dream and write amid white noise –
murmuring TV and radio – mild blats
and burps of city life: an equipoise arises
from its woven hiss and chaos: which foments
the strangest choices – and rejoices in
the sharpest ambiguities that I can find: a balance
and a grind which turn whatever I am thinking

into an obliquity of fickle angles: forming
toothless snakes emitting bubbles, plus
solutions to varieties of other troubles – shattering
kaleidoscopically within and out and back
into the spinning thing that is my mind.
Though by the time I’ve done with any little
morsel of it, it’s become its own peculiar being:

pursues its opportunities beyond whatever
I may see, or have been seeing, which allegedly
effected its creation. Its pesky little egoistic “I”
will soon have sped its way away from “we” –
and any other obligation: it and we and I are
enigmatic history. Tough stuff to discuss.

No wonder no one quite knows how to talk to us.

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