(It takes an hour of musing on writing sitting on a rock in the wilderness before you discover, with your cindering heart that you have nothing new to say.
Well.... Let's fail anyways.)
feeling something like wind
or nothing (swaying, swaying for nothing),
like the seething sun spinning me around and around
in its rage against uncertainty.
Don't move little particles, we can't stand not knowing where you'll go.
Spin the merry-go-round, faster, slower,
pain and pleasure all we know,
children laugh, blurry,
not knowing how to cry anymore:
Whether God is dead or he's in a shot of heroin.
I carry black feathers in smooth palms
that ant hills have forgotten with their materialism.
All of it, useless as this dangling junk pile of branches(which leaf,
which leaf to aim for!).
We are no more than
No less, than a billion pendulums.
We turn and swing(the merry-go-round spins)
and I fall to sleep sick to my stomach(we're not supposed to feel it)
and we can't see the sun,
and we can't see the pull,
and a canopy of stars covers the depths of the green junk pile
with a dirty distant light;
And I dream I'm in an amber nebula,
lungs full of a cool undetermined gas,
And I dream green leaves