A Hard Night’s Day

Wandering through the mindspace of eternally infinitesimal instants,

I find lightning bolt lashes of insight

into what I

am really thinking about.

 

They come and then they’re gone:

sub-conscious decisions I don’t really know I’ve made.

 

Existing as the ephemera of my reality,

yet simultaneously as enduring decisions made,

they haunt my waking dream

because of my conscious rejection of cautiously proceeding

to make them manifest.

 

Why must we be built with the capacity to hide

essential information from ourselves?

 

No, that is a ridiculous question.

What is it inside us that necessitates the structure

of hide-ability?

 

From a purely technical standpoint

it’s a necessity for accomplishment

and the understanding that there're

some things that would never be in

the realm of accomplishability if it

weren’t for the fact that we hide its

reality from ourselves.

 

We hide the fact that our jobs are merely a means to an end

because otherwise we would understand that there are other

ways to make ends meet.

 

We hide our unhappiness in our current situation in order to

maintain homeostasis because otherwise we’d realize there

are other ways to maintain.

 

There is always another way.

Keep that in mind.

Or don’t.

It only barely matters.

 

Don’t be afraid of what’s hidden inside you.

Seek it out.

Seek and seek and seek and seek and seek and seek and seek and seek,

knowing you will never find it.

Yes: A Song

Sometimes the memories of we

remind me why I had to leave.

And sometimes, they chop like an axe,

leaving me with just one thing I have to ask:

What do I do with all the times

I laid there with you, and called you mine?

What do I do with all the places

I will only and always see your face?

All the times my soul cried out:

"Yes! Yes! You're finally the one.

Yes! Yes! The race has been won.

I've searched all my life, just to find you."

Because now you're gone, so 

what, what do I do? 

Guess I say yes.

Been drinkin' a lot these days

just tryin' to cope with the rage,

and writing for reasons I can't understand

songs about how I'm still holding your hand.

So, what do I do when I reach for your hand

and find that my hand has nowhere to land?

And what do I do with a soul that won't stop

making me see you and making me drop

to my bare knees and say

"Yes! Yes! You're finally the one.

Yes! Yes! The race has been won.

I've searched all my life, just to find you."

Because now you're gone, so 

what, what do I do? 

Guess I say yes.

I don't know where on earth you are,

and I don't think you took it this hard,

and you were always stronger than me,

but right now I've never felt so weak.

I saw your face in the mirror last week

in your cotton nightgown, just staring at me.

I turned to say, "Baby, come on, gimme a kiss,"

and in half a split second, you turned into mist.

So what do I do when I'm haunted by you

and see pieces of you in all that I do?

What do I do with a soul wracked with pain

and remembers beauty when it sees your face

in my dreams and says

"Yes! Yes! You're finally the one.

Yes! Yes! The race has been won.

I've searched all my life, just to find you."

Because now you're gone, so 

what, what do I do? 

Guess I say yes.

Spring

What is this new beginning that I am?

Daily and hourly and perpetually catapulting me into new air

is a force I cannot comprehend.

 

Brow-beaten by significance and ponderous

wonderment, we exist in anguish of what we can be

to the point of paralysis.

 

DAMN YOU JOYCE!

 

Really, it is consciousness’ fault:

because it tempers the way we see the world,

we see the world through a totality that can never be

simply what it is—

 

it must always be other,

existing in a different timeplaceperson.

 

In love we want completion, comprehending fully its doomed vainglorious effort.

In money there can never never never be enough: there’s always more to get.

In sex there is the being-inside-the-other, but physical intrusion cannot be sustained.

In philosophy things will always already be out of date: otherwise philosophy dies.

 

Beginnings are always a question that starts with what,

and we are beginnings every day:

sometimes I want out of my head,

and sometimes I want in.

 

“There is a spectre haunting the world today”

—and every day—

and it is what we could be. 

 

“There is nothing to prevent the consciousness from making a radically new decision in its way of being”

—nothing but itself—

because it’s afraid of new beginnings.

 

Haunt ON!

Haunt On!

Hunt ON!

Hunt On!

Beginning become me

as I become beginning.  Amen.

Fear is the greatest evil in the world.