You ache and I push you;
Otherwise we are idle,
Cementing ourselves into beds, chairs and couches.
The reality of us is hard to parse,
And as I press the lines blur:
Are you me or my?
The only philosophy I hold dictates one thing,
Which befuddles me, evades explanation:
You are both.
Running becomes an exercise of existential philosophy,
Weights are the metaphor
But to continue, this is the practice.
Each day between abstraction and the figurative
While bodily wear mounts;
Is this the path to our next evolution? or a folly along the way?
When I bought you, I didn’t know what you’d become;
You were slotted for drab budgeting,
The infernal dollar keeping that quickens my heart;
Something about you changed this fate.
You reminded me of the inferno within,
The parts of my that wish to combust in passion;
(Why could I never let my soul be set aflame?)
You called to the old poet in my soul.
Now you’re decaying;
I knew this would be your fate,
You carry a commercial mark that is no longer you.
You’ve shed the business “Minimalism Art” and have become Austin.
One day your casing will be in tatters,
This faux leather and foam wind-bound;
But I will keep you;
I will mind you as writing in you mends my soul.
I am the dead tree outside,
Still standing despite heavy winds.
The poet from the window piles on his conjectures;
I was supposed to fall six months ago.
Spiting this man, I stand more firm,
Even with decay all about’
This charge proves my obstinance,
That man of flesh knows not those of wood.
My leaveless branches are a sign of demise,
but the situation is also a boon;
My nakedness decreases surface area
So the wind cannot batter me as it does my live kin.
My bull’s head doesn’t make me invincible;
One day the man in the window will be there to hear my fall,
And he’ll think of George Berkeley,
Then continue on with his metaphors.
He predicts my death not as a poet,
but as pseudo-scientist,
I hope, at my demise,
He attends my copse as a poet
Red aluminium can upon the desk,
White scribe line is the graced print;
I become an advertiser through it.
Key chain reps a galaxy far far away,
From shirt to shoes, I represent the capitalist.
I am the walking billboard for the masses.
What if I advertised myself,
The books most vital to my soul etched into skin,
Dialogues of Plato tableau-depicted on my back?
I’d become the amalgam of ideas,
No closer to representing myself,
Still advertising the other.
To advertise myself, I must be bare,
Empty of all branded clothes,
(How the steer snarls when branded! )
Empty of all branded ideas.
Oh capitalism, my birthright,
Wouldn’t it be better
If I didn’t have to advertise at all?
The ghost of myself in the mirror;
It’s a phantom,
And it can’t contain my mind,
Not my spirit,
Nor my indelible memories.
But still this figure glares;
Sizing up the corporeal counterpart,
as if usurp-planning,
As if it’ll one day wear this skin
And still the memory.
This is the haunted figure,
There, but not actually
It is me, but just an abstraction;
If you laid eyes on us,
We’d be identical
The figure haunts me so;
It is a ghast, an abomination of self,
A being of multi-dimensions shredded into two,
A chimera in perfect disguise;
Who couldn’t be me because I’m me.
But to anyone else, what’s the difference?
I am you,
You, who is before this page,
you, with those dreams:
I am you
And you are me;
These words are yours
And they are written for you
No other distinction matters.
I stand between two trees:
One live, on dead;
One verdant, one vivisected by wind and
Riddled with disease.
I want it to be a symbol of
Man’s struggle to live
While in a perpetual state of dying,
But this is a clumsy metaphor;
The live tree is dying too.
I feel the wind caress my skin;
It’s not the same wind
The one that comforted me
As a child.
But it does feel the same,
and so I am thankful,
Accepting the wind as an old friend,
Picking up where we left off
All those years ago…
There is a portal I use;
It helps me escape the world,
With its endless clamor and heckle.
This portal is as common as wine,
Though better for you;
It’s as helpful as a teacher,
In the words I read,
There is a portal.
What is the purpose of this pen in hand,
Writing encoded messages of an abstraction’s abstraction?
What point are these pointed words,
Which have no power without you before them?
I can’t learn the answer;
It is hidden in measurements and data,
But I am not an empiricist or scientist;
So the answer evades me.
Still, I’m called before the processed tree carcass,
The parchment on which I impart my soul,
not to measure or define,
but to explore the spirit of the world.
This is the less visceral form,
The medium that encodes and deconstructs,
The medium penetrating reality through lies,
Through fiction and image.
I cannot tell you if the universe is truly infinite,
I am not NDT, or any other pick-a-name celebrity scientist;
But I can show you the infinity of the world within,
The worlds that inhabit each one of us.