Pulse

“And somewhere lions still roam: so magnificent they can’t understand weakness.”
-Rainer Maria Rilke

Contemplating the blotches on
our skin we are
compromised.

All night I would rest
my weary head
on a block of wood
attempting to transfer
from one to the other
some form of
consciousness.

Look at this landscape.
An endless silhouette of
upward-reaching
steel and metal.
I do not know
chemical compounds.
If I did, perhaps this equation
would come simply.
But I do not and it
does not.

There is an emptiness
associated with
the shell.
That is, material
surrounding space.

Once I thought
that every building
was my father.
This was disproved.
Instead I now find
that buildings fill up
flat endless space.

Try to fathom the universe.
And we do. And we do.
So now there are
oranges and bodies and children.

So now there is
a world so
full to the brim with
things, that we can’t
believe it was ever
previously so full.
There are cavemen
suspended in time.
Icy tombs ready to burst
with life on hold,
if only the sun
could melt them and revitalize
their contents.

Beneath the endless
cracking clay there are
pots that once held water,
ancient water.

Geography consumes
and bellows.

A child in a basket
floats down, down, and we are
all immaculate.

Everyone was conceived
without consummation.
In this way,
we accept existence
without disgust.