Friday, March 25, 2016

113 Poems in 38 Days

Can't be done and no one
Would ever want to read
The disturbing results.

Nonetheless, disturbing
Results are on their way.
The dying scientist,

However deluded,
Self-deceiving, and wrong

Is about to ascend
Like antigravity
Prophets of long ago,

Bearded, wingless angels
Rewarded for madness
With myths of survival

And whispers of return.
Of course we don't return,
Except on investments

Of our vested interests
In seeming immortal.
(When you can't be, you seem.)

We can do this madness.
We can compose a gross,
Or nearly, of nothings,

Parting gift to nothing,
Pretending counting's real
And everything numbered.

Laughing at origins,
Hungry in the middle,
Here, near the end, begin.

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