Assumptions, a confused settler lost on a prairie,
that is less frontier, than it is desert.
A sense of understanding, fleeting, leaving me to
grapple with mine own hypothesis’,
those made in earnest respect, hoping to cull from
them the factors inhibiting happiness, and encouraging
rage, the purest unadulterated presence of hatred
manifested.
A century’s weight placed squarely on shoulders
widened by will, stricken me with grief, a grief
to remember each false claim and every conquered
culture, but it is not my place to speak.
I could read every book in print, and remain ignorant,
for I’m inculcated by the simplicity of the
exploratory explanations for our atrocities,
as they watch to see just how investigative we will
be, and the obvious conclusion is found in our passive
behavior, but all this I suppose is rather redundant.
As I break off on another tangent.

I attempt to cushion my fall, breaking my palms.
Uselessly screaming into the vacuum created by our
following of their control.
I resign myself to this haven, this superficial heaven,
where the audacity I once had, may die stigmatized,
passing each character trait onto each newly turned
page. Always wondering about how the difference will
be made. Then the chapter closes, and a new path opens
making my politics a palace of glass to be thrown at
by miscreants of justice, whose stones are written upon
by each soul’s speechless claim to history, their
manufactured social structure.
Calamitous ideologies, each one implanted, realizing
for the first time I’m the creation of their design,
realizing each fact I’ve written about, was their’s
to be interpreted.

Aspiration, the energy I will my body to create,
so I can tolerate the pain of my own insignificant
thinking, while another chapter closes.
I watch as each shaved sheep shakes uncontrollably
in the frigid isolation of their own understanding,
made in bureaucratic hallways, and boardrooms.
One size fits all, says those castrated by idiosyncratic
principles, while trying them on. Never once
acknowledging the heat being produced by the
skin of some other man’s thoughts. Selfishly they
smile about the warmth, and security their hypocrisy
has allowed to shelter them from ever exploring
their own forgotten identity. Most now suffering
from euphoria, the calming sense hypothermia ushers
in just before death.
I in contrast erect an enormous edifice for my weary
identity, so when the day ends, and sleep
comes rushing in he may find his way home, to fuel
my dreams, to inspire my creative devices, to soothe
my pain, and awaken my sense of being, of being a
creative animal hung up on the perfection our
social institution encourages, no matter how futile
the efforts of smoke screening reality might be.
…And I break off on another tangent…

Absolved, the product I manufacture when I
fracture my servitude in the time it takes to create.
I thank these journeys, but acknowledge their
redundancy because without them I too would be a
coatless sheep waiting to be led again by the consumption
of infertile ideas, spurring me to remain silent, and
accepting.
Revelation, the time when a mind wakes to the
concrete product its thoughts created, while
silently objecting.