Existential Bulimia

Existential Bulimia 

Far be it for me to attempt to define the universe,

But I slammed my mouth into a piece of lumber while riding a bicycle once

I survived, so 

What if our universe is a molecular bubble in the drinking glass

Of an oblivious normal being of another realm taking a parceled second

For her to imbibe and eons for us; the metaphor is old, tired, and trite 

Replicated by a Men in Black cinematic, Oprah “Ah ha moment”

In a sphere on a cat’s collar or a Wachowski brother’s Matrix

Of battery bodies plugged in an alternate reality of blue or red pill

Acceptance, rebellion, complacency; this pondering is a withered toupee 

So I rerun these volumes of what is life, why are we here, existential bulimia

Every so often to regurgitate an excursion form the normal

Placation that I, you, we are simply ants burrowing and collecting in a single hill

The dirt, the seeds, the eggs, the permitted fornication for some based on pheromones,

The work-all-hours drone monotony for others, Disobey your roll,

The others will quell your foul mutiny, Les Miserables, Hugo who 

What if the world is solely in our individual dominion?

The passers, the talkers, the celebrities, the homeless are all projections bent

Around the one inescapable constant, the perception inside one’s head

The soul ricocheting like a pin ball, doubting, comparing, oscillating  

There is a universe for each of us, exquisitely detailed, as if Van Gogh

Colors dance, to do justice is impossible if not viewed directly

The canvas pops effusive in a way preposterous to a screen print

Thoughts burst levee banks in a consciousness unrestrained by 

Fact and fiction, blood pumping and literature sleeping in stacks

That a cranium never gets around to absorbing, but in that page, in that volume

Lives the answer, Oh my! The solution like a mother’s embrace of who we are in pace

Of the grand, someone found it once by search or accidental door opening  

The thought came detailed and went into the vat of silence

The ants marched by, occasionally glancing at the black-hole open doorway

The expanse inside infinitely dense, yet as a speck of pollen

Aloft in front of one’s computer screen, definitively visible, yet dismissed  

But then the ants are not ants, but projections of the tangential realities

Of the infinite other individual universes, pausing, blurring if that choice

Would really be their choice if they were fully here.

The challenge therein, is not showing others the door,

But to see the door in them, the corridors everywhere 

Every face, heart is but a purview to a slideshow in a parallel path

A universe unto itself that one’s conscious action can penetrate,

But for that moment of rebellion, to risk the other ants turning on you

To be beyond the knowledge of certainty, and into the discipline of the inherent 

The core of right’s counterweight to wrong; gram by gram thud

Into the purview parading behind one’s eyeballs

Maniacally cackling escapades of insomnia at times  

Yet, solace is in the sensation of a desert of sand grains

Descending like a tempest of liquid precipitation

The would-be water buries our body into nothingness

And all that remains is that stark black canvas inside our skull  

Firing neurons, dopamine, receptors and blockers

Hollowing out the pathway for a choice

In that decision under the Gobi of grit is the essence of commonality

The kernel of what matters 

Despite the distance of appearing to never touch

The infinitude of iterations of this simultaneous experiment

The segregation of the apparent landscape of time and space

We are in fact connecting in this instance of choosing 

The impossibilities have exploded in a confetti of gray matter

Into energy itself tuned to harmonic vibration of the one

Sung in silence for we need not ear, mouth, or eye to witness

Such grandeur, in that we become the door, naked and plain to all