Stains of graphite and ink
stain my view of the world again and again
Should i question until i die or should i rather
just take in these advertisements, and eat and drive along
and access my body like it were, a cog of the world order
which, as always, is incapable of explaining itself.
It is incapable of laying down its motivations
as am i. It is as haphazard and fast as the smallest
brownian particle, as it can be.
And as much as we could hypothesize
and act as if our planetary system was an atom
And collapse into anarchy, never eating or sleeping
Or as much as we could stimulate every meaning that we could seek
Milking sense from the world
Respecting laws and tenets and ethics and freedom
In a world where things will get engulfed by heat and fire
And wisps of dream and smoke of hopes will
Escape from this matter that we have been pinned to, for ever.
And as cars drive by, cities light themselves up
And trees respire like they always did
We all pause inside and seek - listen to -
Wait for anything that can order meaning to happen to us
And we press our ears against our senses
And this glass body still carries marks where
you put your face against it.
And so long as we can direct our legs to walk and our lips
to kiss our heartstrings to consonance
We don't yet fall and lapse into the arrogant trap of interrogation
that novelty feeds to our heads
Making new of the one world that has to be.
And the objective fancy - of geometry and classical art
and other big pieces of this jigsaw -
comes and alienates you,
As your senses ultimately must see
Only and only what they have known.
And the taste of your thoughts remains rancid and caustic,
burning more holes in your simplicity.
This reality is a rolled up ball
of everything that has happened
branded on its skin.