There were two people doing lunges at night.
A loving, young couple both doing lunges in the dark,
as the wind blew the trees,
leaves darkened
(struck by the old cyclical disease,)
and the last light
illuminated an oncoming storm in the west
(pink and purple and red).
And a lovely couple did lunges across the college green.

I said, “well.”
to myself.
If I was with someone else,
I wouldn’t know what to say;
probably “well.”

The world feels warm and scarred and wrong.
The night is cold and the wind blows a little tree outside my window,
and it shakes like a christian lion shaking its mare,
with all its pretensions of purity the bastard is probably trying to
reach up here and eat me alive.
Science is weird,
you know all those studies pointing towards plants having emotions are probably true.
No lie, I’d believe that, too.

Oh, faceless, many-formed dogma,
the world is too strange and cruel for straight-edged ole’ you.
Oh, yes yes, I’m no human heretic.
It’s beautiful and deep, too,
but deep, complex things can’t be clear,
can’t be soft and cushy like my roommate’s beanbag chair.

The world is sentient to its core,
perhaps also,
the beanbag chair.

The complex-world, isn’t like us people.
We can talk and lie
and over coffee,
say with assurance, “I’m this...
No, no, no my political beliefs are akin
to a lighthouse or sailing ship…
oh, this science is the one true path,
rub the wires twice for well-wishings and fertility…
and your martyr can die twice, but mine dies worse…
and the method of mediocrity is mine…
and the school of righteousness,
is the one to which I subscribe.”

the world speaks only in its actions.

what patterns, what purpose do you see?

(Really, maybe it's just me)

We are what we are,
animals
who’ve domesticated ourselves.
This is no small thing,
this is no farce.
See the infinite, terrible grandeur of god,
the universe.
Fall to your knees in awe.
What is there to say,
what is there to say?
It is what it is
and it is terrible and great.

We write our morals,
but can’t comprehend
our own true motivations,
or own true desires,
the truth of the swirling madness
we discuss clinically in certainties.
Easier to speak in clichés,
which I know I love.

What exists within my heart,
where is the man beneath his own lies?
What do his lies say, what drives him through the long day?

In all a desire imitate,
in all the potential
to strive
to be as graceful, as saving
as the universe in its motion;
in all a desire to be terrible,
as heartless, as fearless as the force
that runs through the world,
and breaks and hurts,
and survives alright.

Shaped and formed by the indifferent world,
we work.
Instead of pushing toward the great good,
as inborn a notion as anything else in us,
we get caught up with the inconsequentials of our invention.

No, I’m unsure, no the world, noworld.
The world is not clear,
but is as you see it
before you name it and speak of it.
The maddest of men
glimpse the world
and compartmentalize
a bit more than well-adjusted ones.

Do you sense a greater cohesion?
I don’t know.
I can only sense
it’s great size.

No true nothing,
your beloved
science and ritual,
only warped reflections;
a child’s drawing of god,
of the mountains and the globe.
One hundred dots on a screen
to represent infinity.
Simple and funny and strange things,
which bury and hold
the world
and us
in our attempt to make reason
or hold and catalog the world.

This is only a world
that cannot exist separate from its inhabitants.
It’s a place birthed from the movements of the winds,
deeply scented by aromatic piles of bulls***.

So,
the world is a deep dark well.
God, science, life, death, mortality, eternity decay, creation
all spin like a witch’s brew at the bottom of that hell,

Oh world, I don’t, know.
The laughs outside my window,
all those happy, drunken kids,
who must not dream much,
but have plenty of people they can love.
and my smoke-smelling flannel feels too hot,
though it’s very cold for early fall.

Oh, world, oh world,
you have no plans at all,
and sometimes it really f***s us fine folks over.

I’d still rather be in the cool of the night,
in that dark breeze,
than sitting here writing this s***, though.
All we can do,
a poor reflection
of a world too great to know.