Frayed, abraded, uprooted, afraid

There is a metaphysic in the back of the brain
which strolls down its neurons, accuses them
of deeds they have not or could not perform
or conjure up: with what sickle, what key
did they aspire to concoct out of misery
a better god than what was at the advent given?
A narcotic in the thinking realm (for then
are we not figments of the universe’s story?)
reaps and renders diverse opinions:
one abrasion goes, “I will wind up
homeless in the New World, wrapped full
in the preachments of tattling schizophrenia
that tells me I too will die like the others,”
and another goes, “I will abuse the best
I’ve known and taunt the worst I’ve known
and die naked in a gully I thought up
from nothing,” and after a multitude
of phantoms flaunt their fears and go—
after I depart from the books which
sundered me thoroughly, ruined me
as a temple is ruined once a tavern—
once I touched intimately the hand
of a withered old theorist and bid him bye—
the theorist was a white medicine man
who told stories of better cities than this—

~ by Jeremy on June 30, 2013.

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