I don't remember knowing danger
Although once a force did propel me
fumbling down a mountain, my eyes
gorged on sight, the dark between my ears
preserved alone, my feeling pumping heart
a true cliché. I remember then
feeling as I do; a frustrate unfulfillment;
I read myself a female Hamlet, or
inertia, a quagmired eighteenth century mold
whining for a use in the passive tense.
Falling on my senses to yield sense
I drive my eyes and ride my speeding skin
but logic won't succumb to blissful numbness
Nor energy derive from internal forces
That now mock pattern but require truth
Persistence of perspective proves that life
is not a quantity, but quality's
color spectrum is to biology a wheel
until the redshift glow violet forgets.
The world I am retains all energy
and stasis must be moved by interaction.
When every metaphor is recognized
Even memory of pain is prized.
So originality is priceless as
the mutant gene that causes melanoma,
as unattainable as breath, desired
like a fat man in my bed, demanding
division on both sides by zero.
Apology as infinite and half
as ineffectual as possibility.
In the kitchen at the devil's party,
I steal away each value that appears
and justify confusion through absorbtion,
an entropy rested gravitational spiral.
I remember what I heard about
pessimists; and something to sing about.
I'm no maker to demand or judge,
and so have gained objectified abstracts
like love and loss of trust, and lost my lust
to sloth, all of which are everything
and thereby as immeasurable as nothing,
quanta accidentally calculated
to overwhelm. But not the dark gray matter
that bitterly laughs at polytropic trippings,
its foot a synecdocal metaphor
for minding the existence of creation.