sophist's lament / the absurdist's idealism

[sweetwater]

hey you
hope you are you
having 'a you' wonderful afternoon

much like to run and do something
about being and becoming
edit my editing and editorialize
my exercise or is it excersize

has me thinking about words

now i am here ... wait ...
i am not in the least space that
creates itself to be but a ghost

like the passage of time
in the ending credentials
of long movie that purposely goes
around forever
without resolve to resolve
but to create

here is where i open the door
and let myself back into the metaphors
of spice and flavour the scent of jasmin
and tall trees of centuries
growing
and how it is has taken so long

over the years to create
the purpose of invention
to create a story
out of ourselves

though i do admit and profess profanity
too has its misplaced virtues
not as intent but as the frustration

of a subjective sort ...
the lot of man in search of a soul

modern soul in search
of an analgesic
and the inability to reason
an audience into favour
to write a book in the seduction
of one's senses

to feel the emotions
seemingly stupified
by the direction of an absurdist

though i am creating
making it up and i don't take you
the reader very seriously anyway

not that i can chew chew
be like a window onto a meadow
searching for the beatific
as metaphors that roll beneath the waves

it goes on and on
that is the point afterall

to elicit the solicitor
into abject revelations of great proportion

as in putting a value on the time
spent alone
in the orthographic hemisphere

but i guess i should afterall think to represent
what it is i am not trying to say

it is as if one were to write
something edible or something
to keep you warm on a frosty night

the foolishness of oneself
and a nature that calls

to take the pi out of you hiss hiss