In absence of disguise;
the thought
it thought
I thought
I’d thought
of first, before;
the absent
mind molecules; first concepts, now this.
And, pacing ourselves, we run up hills,
peaks and valleys;
peaks and valleys we had seen
in some other(ing) dreams
some time
or another
at some point.
Lifting our veils, we are blinded by the light of revision;
dying of thirst, we harbor resentments of presence;
the impenetrable gaze of history stares right through us
like we’re
phantoms.
And we keep on climbing the hillsides;
valleys, peaks, rivers, dreams;
I’d found a clearing once, the sun peaking through the trees,
small stream,
neck deep crystal clear pond.
If only the identities we’ve allowed to elapse
would crush us beyond representation;
then and only then and only when elation,
from frustration,
is derived.
How Many Apocalypses Does It Take To Screw In A Lightbulb?
As many as it will take.