This is a series attempting to explain my misunderstanding of perhaps the most important 20th century philosopher, at least to artists and other weirdos
Covered by wet things after a rain
and it survives as a fierce floating
phenomenon that gathers above
our heads for later. I steer my collateral
out of the way and lead it down
into the dungeon where thoughts happen.
Or they occur, as words are simple
but their differences profound
since I’ve been trying to find a solution
to a problem I haven’t yet determined
can after all the ghostly trances
the coming clean under the light
of articulation, where wind blows
hope into wreaths of befuddlement.
I wrack my young head, since my other
is much older now, more willing
to conform to the position of the possible
because I idealize my self as some knotted
piece of wood, right for jamming doors
and muddling about during a flood.
The sensations of floating straiten
and unstraiten me, as I slowly fall
apart in particles free of the wretched
configuration drilled into me by education.
The sounds change and we are milling
about again in collateral of many
leaves and twigs, a mulch of missed
opportunities to lurch one or another
way into a void of mischance and jovial
expectation. The collateral redeems
as it dissipates and I am left screaming
my name at the sky in a soundless
tertiary code supposed to help me
gain my footing. There is no gasp
not even a murmur in the falling trees
as they assemble into hypotheses
of running events. The collateral
ceases to be and I am forced to give
up everything and the notion of
a self assumes a layer of incandescence
that prettifies it, leaving it seem
less real, but more desirable
to aspire to. Whatever this recurrence is
I keep feeling it as a nervous bundle
in a vast pond that can’t decide
where one thing ends and another begins.