why do i care about this “life” i’ve lived so far?
why should i care?
it’s not like the world needs my type of “being”,
not for the shuffle / replacement that is what the last
being to be placed on its surface has / is good for.
there’s no true need for “intelligence”, nor “love”.
why should anyone worry about who makes one
happiest when it’s all rub and spray anyways?
how can the artist of life be satisfied with the “end
product” of so much work to “get there”?
isn’t there a simple switch to stop the destructiveness
that its ‘things’ increasingly multiply?
or, is there a switch that finishes their maturation process
just before it demolishes the rest of the art/ work?
the sadness of this is that there was so much to look for,
to find, then hold.
wasn’t it just a second ago that firsts were so many?
and continue just that?
i sit at a man-made plane tapping squares that turn into
glyphs and numerals. rarely do they blossom to things
that are truly use-full.
to be, or not to be was turned into something called
profound, it should be something that must be “sanitized”.
the infection has a mind of its own.
i’m tired of this. but, keep reasoning to begin with another
spin-to-light, not wanting to join a tool of david’s wrath.
it may not hurt as much as the absolute zero of non-
this “life”, of late, is quite like walking up an oiled wall,
there’s a ‘law’ against it, and the construction materials
weren’t sturdy enough to begin with.