Crackle

*

Because made. The world, the whole thing. Not just there. "There" is a word excavated and occupied. Occupied by. Billion dollar prepositional phrase, quest of lifetime: "by". By whom? To know the whom all the way. Lifetime task. Lift a rock, never find nothing. Because made. What would nothing be? A counter for computations?

Finish the "by". Digging your heart for treasure.

Even nothing has something inside.

No that's not right. Not something. Someone.

The difference between "thing" and "one"? Finish the "by", would you please. Tried and tried. Even the being at a loss, even that is movement forward. A quest, no?

Every second a package to be unwrapped. In fear. Might explode. Crackling paper. Fear.

It kneads you. No stopping. When stopping stops it goes on. A dryness folded into the water. All right.

Made. Made by. Finish the by.

She herself was the package.

Afraid to open. Easier, just clutch it and hold on. Suspension, abeyance. All that sad vocabulary of not yet.

Cowardice is understandable. But that is not what I wanted to understand.

Syntax, that would sustain your thinking but not change it. Not the virtual particle flitting that you like to be. Not committing, never committing.

No one was ready really.

The freedom of not being anyone, that was what people wanted. People themselves wished not to be occupied. Instead of excavating. The occupation was not you but another. It might require something.

To pregnancy, they brought a scalpel. The horror of being someone, having a history. A syntax.

Better to just fly?

The students walked over not upon the campus. The sidewalk. There were sad nymphs leaning half in half out of the trees. The students didn't see them. Poetry now nothing but Poundian flotsam. Frags of self delight. Rap in a workshop. Fun to write, painful to read.

Well, God spoke in days and weeks, not just individual words. You had to wait. Even the moment of true waiting, that too you had to wait for.

*

Because made. The whole thing. Not just there, really.

*