We are the residues of habits that led
To our existence. We are because of how
We now are likely to be. What would become
Us became the reason for the production
Of us. And you say the future can’t create
The past? You are the nothing that shaped your past.
Might as well pray. Or consult shamans, prophets,
Political pundits, hedge fund managers,
Rabbits’ feet, ghosts of your recent ancestors.
After all, you’ve inherited the impulse
To attempt to influence inherently
That impulse after ancestors abundant
In that impulse entangled your existence.
It works, after all. Not as often as hoped,
But often enough to keep lineages
In play, to date. Uncertainty is the truth,
And our pasts continue to conform to it.
~ Nothing Is the Whole Point, You Jest
Of the excitement
That presages death,
Only the frightened
How earthy fate is.
You can mean a trip
And can mean play, too,
Just the same as you.
You make the trip, play
The play, and they’re you.
What drama you are,
What an adventure,
But only as you,
Fey, bored, frightened you,
West lost in the sun
On your round-trip home.
You spin to your core
And you have no point.
You’re as modular
As counting by clocks,
Beginning your end
In your beginning.
There’s one tiny hole,
One null, from which you’ll
Fall, through which you rose.