Friday, February 17, 2017

BUILDING, BED, SPACESHIP

Of course you don't
belong out here

quips the whipping wind,
but you don't

feel at home inside
big strange buildings either, Einstein.

What do you do? When you're
stuck in the middle,

when you've already come
so far—already

left your warm
bed, the artificial light—that you might

as well keep going now. Except,
it isn't that fantastic out here.

It's not rocket science—
or science fiction, either:

the difference between
the lunatic genius on the street

and that idiosyncratic one sitting
in the academy.

It's not particularly interesting,
it's not any one product, but the

steady accumulation of them
in what they call a process. It's

Knowledge—as one
exhilarating glimpse

vs.—as a long boring
stream of them.

But, where does that
leave the predisposed

man in the middle?
Besides—trying

always to make
himself the center,

with everything else gyrating
wildly around him.

Besides—lying
whenever he claims

to have gone to extremes.
Besides—unfaithful in all

of his definitions, other than
the one for—indistinct.

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