Friday Back at Work

Friday Back at Work 

I am not sure what to do, but to write

I was supposed to be gone by now

The winter has revolved and it is as if

I am watching my own life over my shoulder  

Periodically I am floating outside and then back inside

The auspices of my own hands operating this keyboard

There is a conversation my present self is not privy to

Recorded in a memory my spectral-self is now recollecting  

In jest that as one sees the folly of the past implicit to the choice

Of one’s own best information at the time acting out in concert

With the comparative reflection of time’s creep

One can see the universe sparkle and cackle in curtain call  

That I was here doing this now, in this building

With that awful printer screeching outside my door like the ring wraiths for Sauron  

I simply wished to find another purpose, so it is

A man without a purpose is dangerous to us all  

I wanted to be needed, to be directed to breathe

And I find myself craving oblivion in the slow times

For oblivion is a better bed than repetition and I assume that is

Why the Gods gave Sisyphus the boulder 

Because they knew what truly drives man to madness

Predictability, in all bearing of stoic taunting gargoyles

If we were given our life as a film to watch scanning towards the ending

And then watching it in reverse, reading the dialogue and wrinkles receding 

Finding a middle age our youth had not reached, but our arthritic fingers

Had felt as a precursor, we could crawl back into our infancy with a new form of fear

Not of the travesties of our lives, for in reverse they would seem all the more banal

As our unknown was obliterated, but the horror of knowing who we will never become   

The fantasy of hope is so dashed in this manner

I can think of nothing more tragic than to live with such certainty

To have a life encapsulated by an infinitude of knowing

So in this as I have said, knowledge just makes everything worse  

I call and call for my obliviousness to return

I wonder not why so many humans cling to ignorance with such constancy

For in the beyond is the danger, the perils of becoming certain  

And so this ghost sits over my shoulder tormenting me with our memories

Knowing my whetted capabilities enacted into our ultimate consequential achievements

That is all, the milk toast of all meal times laid out on the plate

For all travelers to pass by and partake in the crumbly summation of my life’s choices

I peer at these universal truths of time, of God, of the creation of the universe  

That I have picked into my pocket so far along this introspective highway

And the dumbfounding gong of nastiness, is I am still typing at this desk

In this land of the werewolves and vampires gnawing at my foul depraved rants

That there is a difference between Holy ritualistic tomes and universal interdependence 

Burrowed through the internal the ant hills scurry and fight and bicker

Burning each other with the warmongering babbling over the beauty of their queens!

Posh, piss, pox the dirt is so immaculate on laundry day with exclusive salvations

I am beyond that road and on to this sequential modulation of memory  

That in the calculus of choice, to measure the rate of change inside the self

At a given point, at the act of choosing, to measure to be infinitely close as possible

To a moment of learning and a moment of deciding, to identify inside a being

The absence and then the presence is almost miraculous  

As in I know miracles by their definition cannot exist,

For if something achieves the feet of occurring it ceases to be miraculous

By its entry into the logs of time and once noted can be re-noted in another period

The likelihood is irrelevant for a miracle’s rarity is secondary to the power of its impact  

For what is raising a life, if nothing is done in the opportunity created from the gap

Of when a body lay dormant-deceased and risen breathing post oxygen renewal?

So it is we have this, a man sitting at a desk typing, another reading

With this chance before each of us, to do, to speak, to choose,  

Is this any less miraculous than the story of Lazarus or Jesus, these story-time bylines

Given this reprieve to dance again amongst the hills of skeletons with flesh strung metatarsals?

I see, I see, so I peer inward and then outward

I hear the wretch of the printer outside my doorway

Preaching with all its industry, I wanted to be so far away by now

Building another tower, maybe for another man, or another version of myself

Yet I am still here; choosing; so glad I do not know the answer as to why