Often, in the day, the tickle begins its havoc One where the answers my head rested on Beget those questions anew, Begetting more questions, their answers, too I, with upright, beating breast, am fit to take on such a feat To sing out fame and knowledge in the streets, They shall know what I mean, The truth is all and everything I mean. Wracked by what seems a natural progression From confident concreity to existential congestion And subdued by chiasmatic coughing fits, Beginning with the first, ending on the last Confounded by the night where last may come first, I got to bed discomforted, a few shots in me, Knowing not what to blame: me or everything, Who is it that makes no sense?
Staring at the dreamy ‘scape I can see the algorithmic lynch pin Taper off and down Fantasies, angels spread their wings And marvelous oceans rend There at the bottom, or there in the sky, Or in their middle-way Is the delible surface with wanting cajolery Written across it, “thou may.”