amazing to me is the mouth, an organ for breathing, eating and emesis
modified to talk, to abstract from, or in spite of, the world as perceived.
the mouth has so far transcended its original job as to teach the fingers to write,
the ears to listen for features other than the scratching claw
and even the brain, that casual repository and suspicious processor,
to leave the planet and picture the stars and all else reachable by imagination.
the horizon tempts the eye with possibility. the air is clear and good,
and so what if it isnt. you have to breathe something anyway.
maybe you’ve eaten or maybe you’re hungry either way its time to go out front,
the hunt, the mild shopping so amusing to so many. stuck is being mud,
trodden on rather than treading onward, you cant say why
because the horizon lacks names, you know you don’t know anything.
so its really just the hunger, the empty
the interior lack, or the surplus, the careless frumping around
of the body looking for new sensation. nevertheless, there's no sensation,
is only this miserable lack of substance, this scurvied belly gaunt
with emptiness and the world in all its brutally innocent detail.
it is on this scene that the sun begins to rise.