I exert my own kind
of pressure
over time;
I pass it absent-
mindedly, or else
forget it exists entirely.
Like a chooser
who chooses, with his infinite
freedom, to beg,
I sprun the past,
with its plain face
and bad manners—
forever waiting, jungle cat-
eyed
for just the right
future to appear.
*
to express ourselves more
or less precisely?
To fill the tank with self-love
or empty it
of self-pity?
We've been pressured to believe
all these opposites
arose separately,
and then synchronized
by chance. (What are the chances
of that?)
Who knows what sorts of errors
have been magnified
in the process
of enhancement—
or how many of life's other
magnificent annihilations
we find ourselves out here
wannabe-dying
to practice.
*
All told, a life
is a road;
there's one obvious direction,
but many gaps
and fissures.
And every savage experience
is a manhole.
And the language we use
is its scabrous
cover.
