Riddler MacFinkin Tells It Like He Sees It

I’m walking on some floorless floor

in a world of blurs and darkness that is my mind,

to find myself throughout some blueberry bushes,

smelling of iron and mange and shit.

The little loudspeaker in my head is blurting

how special I am in the way that

I’ve learned how to push my wants through my fears

and up into their freedom where they then fly upward

beyond that freedom

and into a vast emptiness that doesn’t support

the weights of pain and pleasure,

but the truth is I can’t hold these worlds within emptiness,

because emptiness holds nothing other than these worlds.

I just want to believe every little thing opens

onto a spider’s view of a rose,

which then opens onto a story of love lost,

which opens onto a story of my mother leaving

which then opens onto a story of how

a broken man comes to regard hope in a positive light,

restoring his faith in humanity.

I want to think that each thought I have

is a way of signing my initials of approval into my own skin,

opens onto a cascade of my body tumbling

through identical versions of itself until I disappear

into a line of poetry that marks the limits of my seeing.