by J. M. Hall
The place-markers of self
peel off like papier-mâché
in June rain, Hegel’s circles of connection whisper
around and down, banging into crop circles
enshrining my feet
like multiple hula hoops
on inarticulate hips.
The walls of my portable Jericho
shrink into the ground like so much confetti.
Alone. Without my opposition I am
a semicircle wheel, cough without breath,
step without foot or sound,
violin without violin.
“Marco!” I scream, but with some lilt
and sophistication, like a madman
attempting to sound sane. No “Polo!”
Faraway in his bones and the still pulse of the earth
Descartes will not say “Polo!”
Not even faintly.
Then I really become upset
for a while, and then I go ahead
and cease becoming.
I am slight breeze blowing
through my ashes. I am window, empty cup,
nothingness which can never be,
only cause to be.
I, wings lacking body, hope of kisses
without mouth to greet their arrival.
I do not believe the Daoists understand in their intestines
what nothingness means. Whatever.
I do not care and soon I will no longer care that I do not care.
Let be be the finale of seem, that’s fine,
the only emperor is that of ice-cream, indeed,
and I am its caramel sauce, I am nuts.
I love the last line, but not this one now that it’s the last line so this is a contradiction.
Copyright © 2014 by J. M. Hall.