Of course our brains are filled with shit,
prescriptioned to necrosis –
we're disabled like a program
with the unbridled smut of science
– so what?
That’s what people do – afraid of others
finding them out in every moment
– if you knew one, you’d understand.
Of course they’re stealing all we do
in the moment that we do it,
and trying to keep us from our dreams,
monitoring our thoughts to hold against us
- but most of us are happy just to be noticed,
we don’t live in constant fear of being famous,
for no one understands another person,
we open up like flowers to learn ourselves.
The only friend you ever had was the game
and you’d have played it by yourself as beat the world
for all it mattered.
You gave your love away all to the game
and those who played it felt your love enough to save you
when you holed up from the world’s love in a dying stranger’s house.
How could the billions help but fall for you right there
with your smile, your wit, your boxer’s feints
– those things of which you were barely aware?
There were moves, and there was everything else.
But what if there were no more moves,
the consequences all were visited
and childhood finally closed its silver doors to choosing?
What if the mind had to leave the board
and had to grapple with beliefs,
with love affairs and politics
– the art of war without weapons –
as the possibility narrowed of escape
– how could one believe in mercy
or await a human touch?
Truth must be impossible
when the mind conceives all possibilities,
when every forking path contains a flower.
Human speech is mostly of forgiveness
- the gulf we face below the light we left.
