He parts his week-old hair
with a narcissistic expression
of doubt and perturbation,
Whatever will be
of myself will be of
headaches and sunlit half-smiles,
with the typical bruises and lesions
of a hardened thought addict.
Think about this:
your arm is on the table under your other arm
in my fingertips,
and maybe I’m the only one that worries
about the hypothetical
but I’m not privileged above danger and
split decisions.
Think about this:
removing desire removes misery
and inserting misery makes desire
palpable. And no
and yes
I’m talking about the Siddharthan desire.
Think about this:
one of those guys that doesn’t know what he wants.
He’s either going after everything
or writing something to justify asexuality and
sedentism. Ultimately, stuffing food in the hole and
farting around is fine, looking at the sun and clouds and cats and
that other cat, he doesn't know what it’s up to,
and the biggest naked rocks he can find,
but first,
he has to stop thinking so much.
