Wednesday, June 14, 2017

No Going, Only Coming

Skepticism might not have evolved so fast into contempt
had Ecstasy’s intentions not been so overt, so rash,
so absolutely unalloyed with mediation. Ecstasy alarmed
by its display of what you were quite certain was predation
which however never threatened any prey. It was as if

it ravenously craved to eat whatever it entreated, though
as soon as any yearned-for thing (and every thing was
yearned for) had approached its lips, it got a wet, unbridled
kiss. Ecstasy had very little outward truck with the Abyss –
although if you agreed to go with it you’d find its nth degree

pursuit would be to shoot you to the brink of going over
who-knew-what. Is there a But? Surely there’s a But. No.
Here is what we know: And! Ah! Therefore! Conjunctions,
interjections and conjunctive adverbs are its favorite parts
of speech: the words you didn’t know you reached for

when you uttered or you muttered or you growled or howled
and sprayed the whole wad of your vowels when you came.
Came, that is, of course, to orgasm – and soon, with ecstasy,
you’d find there was no going, only coming, and you lived
without quite knowing you were always being shown

a refutation of the negative. Only then could you begin to roam
beyond the spherical to the unbounded, roving past the kiss
to the ecstatic fission of Existence, the Abyss – blisses with
which Ecstasy is always having not-so-secret trysts. Ecstasy
is not a miracle. It’s the essence of the is. The Big Bang’s fizz.

But skepticism won’t be swayed by that, or any other nth degree
unbackable fiat, least of all a language which illogically asserts
what language cannot say that it can say. From Ecstasy’s
excesses, Skepticism is exempt. It knows another much
more gratifying way to get itself from day to day. Contempt.


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