dusty table

oh dusty table

how do you hold still those objects

collecting your dust?

how might you,

voiceless breathless inanimate

(less animate, anyway)

discard or eject them?

i imagine you would-

had you not been somehow doused

in the baptismal waters of inertia

destined for all time to relax only when the cynical eye is turned,

the untuned ear tuned out,

the murky muck of perception

has a moment of clarity 

and giggles right back at you.

oh dusty table

how do you hold still?

when i walk

i walk with alms

and though my arms will be covered

i know what lies beneath:

my very own manifest destiny.

wooly sheath, all passive

innocent

innocuous-

ye that shall infiltrate

shall know the depth of comprehension,

hang in the air like a spider's thread

sewing the seam

of this world and that-

ye that shall infiltrate

shall see the moon testify.

but too many ants burrow in this hole.

cold, mechanic, hollow-

thorax branded A for Anthill

bustle

feelers feeling for what?

groping, needing what?

too busy to run a finger down the seam

check for holes

see if it's straight

(though who cares if it isnt)

take a moment

stay awhile

isn't the night lovely

isn't it wonderous!

so eight legs are content 

creating naught but for herself and splendid selfish gains.

complex

complete

rationale missing

but i think it looks better without one,

don't you?

the moon sees it

chuckles good-naturedly

and shimmers on the dew drops

young and wet

like water babies.

what to do?

when questions permeate inspiration

engulfing, 

clogging the drain like chunks of meat,

filter insertion complete?

what to do? 

when yellow bedroom is too cold for sleep

walls too barren

pillow too shallow

bony knees knocking

blue robe shivering

awake and wondering

what's wrong, where is peace?

wondering, but deep down

just knowing

(as usual). 

what to do?

when solemn, well intentioned digging

by thick warm hands

unearths the most metallic of facts

so solid they break knuckles,

their truth so ungainly

hands consider re-burial,

re-subterranean-exile...

but newborn truth becomes like baby,

screaming louder if ignored,

no choice but to cradle if knuckles will heal.

what to do?

when eyes are open so wide

you can't see anything

but dynamics?

nothing but transfer, displacement, longing?

nothing but how it is, 

was,

likely will always be?

hmm, i say.

what to do?

girly feet know...

they take me to walden pond

so i can ask my anonymity.