Wednesday, December 5, 2018

Perils of Ingenuity




.
Cerebral diversion! – perils of ingenuity.
Does a kitten think of hope and death and count
vicissitudes? One doesn’t know – which is
.
perhaps precisely to assert that one cannot forget
that every abstract thought is no less an effusion
of biology than spit. (If only that, or anything, were it!)
.
“I’m just gonna hang out with my cousin.”
“What’s wrong? You don’t seem yourself.”
“I told her you would be there.”
“Tell me I came back and did this for nothing.”

.
Stabs at prescience: careful divagations of the mind:
“why can’t we go in a car like normal people?” Ha! –
but here’s the ticklish rub: the fickle tub of a coagulated
.
cream: the brain: the center, drain, apotheosis
of the dream: spattered paint. You flatter yourself
you’re Jackson Pollock; but you ain’t. You might …
,
however … not not be – entirely.
Don’t need dope to find hope.
They say. I’d say. You’ll find a way.
.
.

No comments: