Whatever will happen
There is consistent chaos
or an erratic order
but death never does
Everything is or is not as it seems
The butterfly flaps its wings.
Another unaware realm creates itself
somewhere in the scratchy sheets of spacetime,
someone will run in this room with a shotgun,
& blow brains to the wall before I can write this.
Trying to cope,
I subsequently commit
everyone in the world is dying
from fashion-related travesties.
I am the last man left.
The last woman won't have me.
She soon dies. The uncompromising
irony forces me to spend the days
Reading feverishly through broken glasses.
speaking to a resolutely silent something:
"I'm such a non-conformist"
Sometimes, I write little poems. They are
adressed to no one in particular
Other mornings I wake up with an idea
It makes tragedy meaningful for a moment
but then I remember
systematically searching for answers,
Sysyphus still lost
the taste for his tongue
when he died.
I die having never lived
Human experience can't transcend Absurdity
just long enough
some basic opinions,
& undergo repeated revisions.
Children with textbook heads challenge wisdom
in favor of situational grace,
bur all grace is situational,
and wonder is still the only beginning to Philosophy.
Prophets died off when
factories began hiring
it's all science-fiction
until it's reality
Our world will end or it has already.
If it doesn't,
I imagine we won't be worried.