19 September 2013

Eighty-Three


83


Woke up again this fine morning,
A dog-tired mind in an achy, battered sack of organized goo.
Like it or no, another day in the purgatory of human design, streaming its merry way.
All meaning and purpose, all rhyme and reason, lost and gone forever.
Son of Santa Claus Jesus may be coming back to save us,
But you can bet this me-myself-and-I sure as hell
Would not go to such troublesome bother.

* * * *
What is the loss of a small trinket when it is your entire universe
You must sooner or later, in just one breath, entirely relinquish.

* * * *
Why in some god’s name is it necessary to worship,
To bow and scrap to, to pray to, to fear, your Self?

* * * *
The road home is neither high nor low,
Nor is it a road, a path, or even one step.
It just is you, right here, right now, forever.

* * * *
So many imitating, repeating,
Dissecting, analyzing, cataloging,
Pursuing in countless scholarly ways
What others have again and again shown,
When it could be they who perceive their own.

* * * *
Agnosticism is the only truly honest answer
To any of the ultimate, unfathomable questions.
Neither you nor anyone else really knows diddly-squat
About the who-what-when-where-why-how of it all.

* * * *
And one day, in the reflection of a steaming cup of coffee,
Or perhaps the bottom of a glass in some seedy downtown bar,
You realized you were only pretending to be a human being anymore.

* * * *
How strange it all is to be cast into an existence
In which every sort of heaven and hell is played out within and without.
An ethereal, touchy-feely, three-dimensional, quantum-matrix of a dream, until death do you part.