My problem is that living is what interests me.
Like, do these words I tumble, simply grind down versions of me
into an indiscernible place where I can’t ever find myself
counting on the light to crash on,
or is it my duty as a human being, with language
always in some part, revolving me inside out,
to employ these rascally little words without understanding
why I have this unquenchable desire to understand
how I spin myself into yet one more extinction?
This sober, party-pooping epistemologist I am,
I’m not sure if these words I write
into the fuzzy cracks of my brain
rolling down a valley slope say anything at all,
when words, like cracks, always seem to crumble time
into something that becomes another delayed moment
that’s breaking its tongue on me,
until my story, which is a destructive story, becomes so small,
I need the word
sand, to see what happened to the rock,
ocean, to see what happened to the sand,
sky, to see what happened to the ocean,
God, to see what happened to the sky,
man, to see what happened to God,
and rock, to see what happened to me.