Friday, December 20, 2019

Where the Brain-Train Stops



.
I can’t look at anything
in which I don’t project myself.
What can human thinking bring
to view except what’s on its shelf
.
already? What other
possible resort has it but
to play father, child, mother
to whatever thought it’s cut
.
from fabric it already knows?
I see a piece of quartz:
To know the word for it bestows
familiarity – a force
.
that I can wield with confidence
throughout incarnate life.
In fact, it masks incompetence –
I’ve not a clue how rife
.
it is with being I can’t speak of.
I can sit here sweating
with the block: indeed, I reek of
trying to imagine getting
.
anything I’m not. I can’t get
what I’m not. What then
can I see? What then can I let
you in to see, and when
.
will it become a revelation
worth the trouble to relate? Fuck
ineducable ignorance! I’m a station
where the brain-train stops, gets stuck.
.

No comments: