Philosophic Phlegm

The metabolic processes of psychic progress
are a deep bewilderment. What are the biological
imperatives of Soul? How does it cultivate the messy
fleshy whole – the rest of what adheres to it –

what springs from it – what rings in it to make us us?

We mesh: we mostly get along. But what about
when things go wrong? Does something central harbor
markers of catastrophe conditioned in some future

to explode? – existential DNA which hankers to unload? –
promises to blast the last of us away? Is the plasma
of our genesis devoted to its final day?  Who can say.
Philosophic phlegm. Silly words. Tired of them.






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