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.

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