It’s
Suddenly, I’m allergic to everything.
I.e., my body cannot distinguish
the truly harmless from the not at all.
I’m not alone in this. Half the people I know
are suddenly allergic to everything. My mother-in-law Millie
who is eighty and never had allergies
before, perorates the relative demerits
of reactine and loratadine,
and my co-worker Linda, who gives herself shots
in the hip every day, dubs the lot of us
Exploding Heads.
Likewise, I catch every legitimate bug that goes around,
as does everyone else. Murphy’s Law of
unwellness. If something can cause us harm…
So we’re sick with everything real
as well as everything not. Reality has mislaid
our bodies, or the other way around—
and craziness is driving itself human.
I.e., up could be down, east could be west, because the planet
doesn’t know where it is
in the universe, and the universe, being everywhere,
doesn’t either and can’t ever.
These are dicey problems and enormous,
unwarranted leaps, no doubt.
Next thing we know, we’re actually thinking about about
and the mind, at
I.e., the mind can see nothing, ultimately, in the darkness,
but gains presence when it looks,
though there’s nothing, ultimately, in the darkness,
to see that seeing something, except itself.
bastard masturbating a glitter
raptures of falling in space forever…