Ponder Well

Ponder well thy own immortal soul,

lest you find it wanting.

Ponder well thy possibilities

lest you miss opportunities.

 

Do not dare notice nothing—in it you may find everything.

Don’t dare notice anything—you might miss something.

And don’t just be anybody—go ahead and be somebody.

Further don’t be everybody—then you risk being nobody.

 

All dualities contain within themselves

definitions for opposites:

good is that which is not evil,

evil is that which is not good.

 

I make mountains of your molehills in my mind,

expanding them beyond what they mean in the world

to take in their meaning of what they mean to me,

and in this what you mean to me.

 

The horizon breaks next to me and I can

see the beauty of it in onyx

surrounded by jade, surrounded

by ivory, surrounded by bronze.

 

Thy immortal soul and mine are inextricably linked:

deny it if thou wouldst, but you lie—

both to thineself and I.

 

Complications arise in soul ponderings,

doubtless it is: they must.

Complications arise when thought

reaches beyond itself to find itself.

 

Ponder well that loving soul of thine,

and pray you never find it wanting.

And ponder well thy perceptions

of what it means to be without,

because understanding these means

understanding all—

 

and I defy you to understand the meanings behind

inextricably linked souls because there is no way to

understand: we can only ponder well.

 

Ponder well thy immortal soul.

Lines Composed at Waegu Quiz Night: MJs

And I’m left wondering:

 

“What am I?

That I should be

so complicated?

What am I?

That I should have

so many needs?

What am I?

That I live in a world

where I can’t see

anything real?

 

My narcissism knows no bounds:

all the songs I wrote for you,

I really wrote for me.

 

My paranoia has a life of its own:

they’re always out to get me,

trap me, find me guilty,

for crimes of consciousness

I am only barely aware of.

 

She is an untouchable ideal,

and I already understand futility:

stuck, paralyzed, fuck you Joyce.

 

Deep as a puddle,

wide as a skinny tie,

and yes, I know you’re beautiful

but you are not for me.

Only the finest ingredients:

everything me and not

me… I think.”

People Who Ride Along the Boundaries

People who ride along the boundaries

are necessarily people in motion—

they are, after all, riding.

 

In this case, the obvious ontological query is answered:

“What are they doing?”

“Riding.”

But is this case there is also explicit organization:

“Where are they doing it?”

“Along the boundaries.”

 

The thing about boundaries is—

unless you’re a cell wall—

they are kind of ambiguously

organized.

 

Think about walking the borderline of a country or state

that isn’t altogether worried about the traffic.

Can you imagine that you walk the borderline

precisely, continuously, contiguously, constantly

closely.  Or is swerving more likely?

And how can you tell where you’ll be at any given time?

 

Being along the border is an understanding of change

and its complete permeation of humanity’s perfection.

 

Completion of perfection a human cannot be static,

for then our complete perfection can only be death.

 

No, our complete perfection,

while existing,

is precisely that –ing stuck to the back of

the infinitive:

to exist:

exist-ing.

 

Perfection—

like truth, like life—

is only the process of becoming

something-or-other… or

maybe just

other.

 

Perfection is riding along the borders

of life

of love

of existing

of existence

of people riding

of truth and reality

of consciousness as such

of totally unrelated sentences

of qualitatively different realities

of the understanding that perfection

is people in motion.