Life is hardly a heap of joys;
ignorance works overtime here
in sheeple country.
The universe uses your own voice to complain.
The needy, tedious body diminishes,
but that devouring voice rattles on.
We wax eloquent in extinct languages
describing marvels to the dead
who are not impressed.
We recite entire dictionaries
of universal incomprehension
through every imbecilic night
until the very ears of heaven
drip weary blood
as every explanation punishes.
You cannot separate
what you have chosen
from what chose you.
So easy to know how to begin things,
unknowable how they will end
other than in a heap of not joys
or a prolonged spasm
of quivering delight.