27 February 2015

Four Hundred and Sixty-Five


All become inured to a certain degree of physical and mental pain and suffering,
To where even a twisted ankle, a burnt finger, or the plucking of a nose hair,
May barely warrant much more than a fleeting curse of a few synapses.

* * * *
The monkey-mind lays claim to every imaginable choice of behavior.
What rock has not been turned myriad times beyond remembering?

* * * *
The time of consequences will increasing play itself out
Until the Reaper finally yanks you off the stage.
Keep a couple coins handy for Charon.

* * * *
What is knowledge but busy-busy distraction
From the what is of the unfolding moment.

* * * *
What is death but not waking up again.
Nothing to anticipate, nothing to dread.
Nothing to hope for, nothing to believe.
All attributes are but the mirage of mind.

* * * *
When your gods, your idols, your dogmas,
Have for the last of many times failed you,
Perhaps you will at last learn to stand alone,

* * * *
Imagination sallies forth,
Always behind, no matter the moment.
The collusion putters on of its own synergistic whimsy.

* * * *
Suicide is not cheating death,
Only taking a  hand  in how it will happen.
Rather than lingering for a more tedious, painful finale.
Charon still earns his obol for yet another voyage across the river Styx.

* * * *
The manifest space-time continuum is not linear.
It is a boundless, indivisible, multidimensional, quantum matrix,
Eternally singular, inexplicable but for imagination’s dynamic, time-bound potential.