We don’t know whom to blame, but into view
have just arrived three semi-thoughts, synaptically
entangled, packed as if prenatally into a black egg sac
inside the mind, seemingly befuddled, huddled
in an awkward binding, as if shorn of hope (as well
as hair) that they would ever find the unimpeded air:
as if too wrapped already in too many erring bands
of over-qualifying strands to ever know the whispered
soft embrace of atmosphere on so much as a tiny
swatch of unencumbered hand or foot or face.
No wonder they looked so forlorn: that is, if they were.
We stirred to think we’d got it wrong. They handed me
their essence in a drawing, and bade me turn it
upside-down. Whereby their purpose may have been
revealed. Either each reversal instantly had healed
what I was sure had had be an injury to self: or their
furtherance did not depend upon the safety of residing
on a sturdy shelf, which taken from them would not
after all destroy their chance of profitable destiny.
“Why are you drawn to the Abyss?” they wished to know.
“Why do you think there is one?” (There wasn’t?)
“Do amounts to Doesn’t which bears striking similarity
to Do. Nothing isn’t nothing. What could nothing be?”
Silly me. (and Whoa! Nothing rhymes with nothing!
I checked no less than RhymeZoneDot.ComLand,
which rules Synaptic Sooth and Friction in the ether
of the Internet, to see. Must be true. They say it’s true.)
But those three enigmatic semi-thinking creatures
weren’t through. “Upside-down or downside-up
or sideways, skinny bald and hairy human thing, you
didn’t draw our portrait. We, including you, drew you.
You and I and I and you and that third mystery who’s
joined us from wherever Over There is. (There’ll always
be a third to turn the Company of Two into a bee-loud
Three crowd). We are the Solipsistic Trinity of Me.
Except we’re not a solipsism, Charlie, are we?”
Something tells us Charlie is our name.
We don’t know whom to blame.