Tonic

we shouldn’t be surprised
when, sometimes things
they fall together

since fall is how they
came apart, in season
cycles, moult and feather

adopt a tune, sing
rain or shine, what is it
after all, but weather

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Exquisite

A refinement of the tastes is a projection of superiority orchestrated by the ego. Its cost/benefit boils down to a reduction in opportunities to experience sensory pleasure of the many things beneath one’s high standards vs the enhanced enjoyment of pride.

This axiom is countered by the argument that quality is an actual phenomenon, that some things really are better than others. But qualities are themselves projections of the mind, which in human beings tends to be dominated by the ego.

[slops a dab of gruel into a crude bowl]

Now eat your breakfast and quit complaining.

how galaxies form

Something on the tip
of the universe’s tongue
no more than an unclaimed
memory: a vanished recollection
that picked up a few

carbon atoms, like sticky-burrs
on its pant leg, on the way
through some asteroid belt

where it began to accumulate
the stuff of it, mass, hording
the entire periodic table
and packing every room
to the ceiling with it, no order
to it, no time to sort it out
the spiral arms of a neglected hallway
closet, packed full and slinging
merciless gravity waves

like a kleptomania of the cosmos
or, something else, it’s just on the tip
of everyone’s tongue

Folly

the folly of humanity
can be summed up
in about a dozen words

but we’d probably come to blows
trying to agree which ones

people who say it’s
all just fucked—they’re not
wrong exactly, there’s an angle
that sheds a good light on
just about anything

it shouldn’t cost
so much, what we seem to
forfeit, to be able to laugh
it up (in the face of mortality)
and still honor the sanctity
of so many beating hearts

but it does, and we’re
already below the grade in unpaid
bills, afraid for what we have to lose
bad wiring in our calculations
crossed purposes in the DNA
of everything that was born
to believe its own eyes

try to say, ‘it’s love, just love’
over the thriving chorus of
‘yeah, buts,’—you can feel it
but you can’t even hear
yourself think it

and you find yourself saying
yeah, but     yourself