“In the beginning was the nonsense….“Nietzsche, HAH
You see those beings there,
Up on the peak which still seems profound,
Acting all kinds of foolishly?
You hear them pounding the ground
With gourds and skins,
Singing only insensible things?
You feel their touch
Caressing the space between spaces,
Barely never touching?
You taste their flavorless dishes--
The plates could well be empty--
Laid out on austere banquet tables?
You nose them out--who else
Knows them but a good noser?--
These neutral nobodies?
You think you know them,
By all accounts they seem ideal
Realities and somebodies?
This one gets naked
Down to his variety of shapes,
Dances and spurts out guffaws.
This one complains in joy’s company,
Telling joy to put on a less garish color,
Telling joy Go home awhile.
This one takes all the love he can get,
Lifts himself high with the mounting love,
Then crashes to earth with that same love.
This one can tell the future,
But the future he tells always winds itself
Comedically back to the present and past.
This one thought he could stretch
And meditate his way to immortality,
And assist himself with drugs and kombucha.
This one thought he could work his way
To enlightenment on four hundred a day,
Paying taxes and being mom and dad’s boy.
This one eliminated all his desires
Save his desire to save the living world;
Now his life is nothing save desire.
This one picked up a book
At a used bookstore in Cottage Grove,
Then took to roaming never opening it.
This one was given a morsel of truth
Over the telephone, pretended
There was a cord and choked.
This one emended his vow of silence,
And spoke up every time
There was opportunity, all the time.
This one left World for holiday
For an eternity of ambiguity,
Ending up merging with the minutest grime.
This one’s pet flea
Gives him more affection
Than the remaining combined kingdom of company.
This one has no friends,
He is never particularly friendly,
Yet everyone befriends him.
This one’s grim and strict ways
Has the tendency to chase away
The stiffest tree limb, send it running.
This one’s child goes running wild,
Lacivious and insatiable; he calls it back
With the weakest bell in the sky.
This one is estranged from his family,
He never quite conquers why
Because new and fresh family makes him busy.
This one thinks of drowning
Whenever he leaps into the churning,
Still with life’s unbroken yearning.
This one sits alone sometimes
When he need not, he need never
Sit alone, still he sits all alone.
This one coughs
When there is nothing else to say,
Coughs and grumbles and smiles inside.
This one plays a game with manifold lives,
Hopping on their diverse posteriors
And riding them to their distinct destinies.
This one just doesn’t want to chase
Like a rabbit after shadows
The same old undying flame.
This one feels the same but practices
A different tack, accepts all romance,
Daring, uncertain claims in his life.
This one walks the edge of things
As though practiced on the tightrope,
The knife’s edge spacious and ample.
This one feels cramped and crumpled
Up like a ball of anxiety up
In his little corner of the blessed world.
This one takes to tight spaces,
Even his closet has breadth enough
To contain a compact enlightenment.
This one works
As long as there is joy in work, gets tired
As long as it is a joyful exhaustion.
This one is plain tired,
Though he never admits it to anyone
But the most refined ears.
This one’s soul is lined top to bottom,
Inside to out with memories of defeat,
Trembling expectations of victory.
This one contemplates death all the time,
Now his life is like surfing,
Each event waves’ superfluity.
This one floats high above existence,
And so do all the rocks and arrows
Hurled at him float too.
This one’s hair is curly like wool,
All knotted up and tangled,
And not only his hair.
This one fell for that one,
Now the tangles are loosened,
At least for one the tangles are loosened.
This one thinks that some tangles,
All tangles really at the tangled bottom
Of things cannot be untangled.
This one thinks that the springs,
All the sources of things lie everywhere,
In every breath-instant.
This one thinks that sorrow
Is accompanied by joy and joy sorrow,
Always and every time.
This one knows that his knowledge
Is the same as an empty box,
Filled, then emptied out again.
This one sees a bird then cries,
Hears a child then laughs,
Inhales his lover’s essence then sighs.
This one considers life as composed
Of riddles and puzzles,
And himself as puzzled and riddled.
This one steps through life like dance lines,
Sings through the steam of life like song lines,
Dream winds his way through the world’s dream lines.
This one dreams he is dreaming,
Dreams he is on to something,
Dreams his dreams mean dreaming something.
This one gives up,
At just the right moment,
And just the right withered leaf.
This one takes in nourishment,
Right with the first yellow ribbon.
You think you know them all,
Or a single one?
You think you can sense a form here?
Look for them listen for them,
Feel for them taste what they put out there
To taste, nose them out think of them all you want.
These beings need an excuse to hide,
Become thin as the line between earth and water,
They need space and an excuse
To no-show themselves, display foolishness,
If anything at all.
They are everything to everybody,
Nothing to nobody,
No one at all.
In all the world, if anything
Is never known at all,
No one at all ever knows them.