Sober, Party-Pooping Epistemologist

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.