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In philosophy things will always already be out of date: otherwise philosophy dies.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