Poem: “Corrupt to The Very First Syllable”

In one room; four reflections, enough to (if noticed) go mad by

And for the recovered madperson, there’s sometimes the miserable

Nagging fact that if too bored they could always tiptoe the wire again

What is worse? Overwhelmed or unfulfilled?

The cure for complacency is suffering

The cure for forgiveness is being always correct

*

Here is the logic of master animal

(What have we mastered? Subjectivity)

*

I might stalk the forest if I could

And replace every fat wide water-holding leaf on every tree

With shards of mirror, because I like the way glass fixes heavily to things

(And droops them even further down, overheavy and glinting)

Also it would be impossible for satellites to find me: it would all reflect

(Note: I’ve not pursued the practical science involved here)

Also it could be very bad luck because glass is like a mirror and one breaks it

To get shards, so I could cure myself of superstition

(For example, I don’t swim so as to not break the reflective surface of water,

Out of respect for mirrors)

*

There is a school of thought that I tend to cautiously trust

Claiming that things are, most deeply and basically, corrupt to the blood

To the very first syllable

And there’s no talking without lying

And no thinking without the subjective assault of the objective world

(Empathetic, pulsing with fertile magnanimous care)

It’s frustrating, really

I dislike it, which is sadly a sort of proof of the thing anyhow

Perhaps there’s a core in me that can perceive and organize without

Desiring to master and consume

Could be!

But I’d be surprised

*

It slipped right by me, lord

It went right past me

It went through me like a silk thread through the eye of a needle

I was choked with a wealth of self-sufficiency, I was comfortable and therefore felt free

I watched it and didn’t see it, didn’t feel it,

I can tell you my name

That’s about all

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