most of the time
                                                                        i am convinced
                            
                                    there is no such thing

as                                                          being



                                                                                alive

I think something went wrong when I was made
like God skipped a stitch and left
part of me gaping open and
when I was eight I found that thread and out of
sophomoric curiosity I started tugging
look at me now
a mess of tattered strips of fabric
all tangled up in the thread
that was supposed to hold me together
and sometimes I get it in my head
that someone will come along and
fix me
but that's never quite how it seems to work
because I was sick the day
everyone else got scissors
and so when I expect affection
I get rejection
and the cold snip, snip, snip
of the parts of me they want to take
and now there's not much left
underneath the pretty face
just tangled thread
and a graveyard of a heartbeat

A body has length, width, mass and occupies space
But in what relationship to time?
When did it begin and must it end?
A mere witness is required at the mark of the line

But a rock is not a baby
You could ask a scientist
But as we walk there is no need to know
For the body is there in motion and at rest

For man it is what it is
Utility, beauty, an obstacle
A nuisance
A receptacle
We perceive its properties
And what it means to us
We know it occupies space
Regardless of how gracious
Just because it is
It does not care about what
Unless it knows to survive
Or it bleeds when cut

What science
Tells me I’m cold?
What theory
Confirms I’m old?
There is a perception of what I have seen
Through my own eyes
Without reading a book
I wonder if I believe in lies

I know the absence of light can make red black
I know a rock is a rock
But the illusion is defined by a relation
For color or stone is defined by what it is not

To what end a distraction of sound unoccupying space?
A beautiful sound occupies time
And time stops for us yet we know this is not true
Because the witness has continued to draw the line
The scientist can measure
And I can walk in a circle
As I ponder what it is that I hear
I wonder if that is the particle?
For what man once saw
And could not hear
Was there all along
In the air
When birds flew near

What is next?
Will it erase everything we know?
I don’t need gravity anymore than I need long ago
For what change would be in me
When a magnetism between the earth and myself
Is assumed
While that thing between you and I
Is something I always felt

Someone called it God
Something I cannot explain
I wonder if they can
We are resigned to believe in a superior brain
I read the words about mass and volume
And a higgs and a boson
But the sun continues to rise and set
And the wind and rain fill each season

They broke bread and opened a bottle
They congratulated one another
But who was saved and who was condemned
In a sub-atomic world where no baby can find its mother?

The God Particle
Can it save my Father or your wife?
Can it save the world?
Can it bring my friend back to life?
I think we will continue to suffer
For as knowledge continues to make itself available
We retreat into the minds of others who think
And man defines himself by what he is unable
Yes by what he is unable to do
And what he is unable to know
And what he is unable to conceive
And how he is unable to grow

Why don't people write poetry
when they are happy?
Because you don't need to digest happiness,
you just let it wash over you.

What would happen if, instead,
we digested
happiness through words
and poured struggle and sorrow
onto our heads
so it dripped down our chins
and leaked in our minds
and slid down our shoulders
and backs
and legs
and made a puddle of tears at our feet?

Our books would be filled with joy
that generations could read
for years to come.
And they wouldn't think us a boring lot,
but find smiles
in our words,
and fondness
in our memories.
So the ground would be covered sadness...
it would water the plants,
and strengthen our souls,
and nourish our minds,
and that wouldn't be so bad
would it?

Because when it's all said and done...
you can step out of a puddle.
But if a pen is a sword
and the words are it's ink
I'd much prefer those words
to be loved.