I apologize for constantly stringing together words
in all sorts of strange and mentally taxing ways.
I know this peculiar compulsion of mine for what it is.
Observation does not dim its maniacal pretentions
toward its unknown audience.
(I do not ingratiate; I do not network;
I bite the hand that feeds me;
And often suffer myself alone . . . )
Why do I do this over and again?
I don’t know. I really don’t know.
Everything must emit.
I suppose I am too empathetic to cage them,
To watch my thoughts thrash about in captivity.
( . . . Then I imagine whole worlds
So as not to be alone; Still, my
Obscurity does not easily suggest
Willing and wondrous inhabitors.)
From our inception, we feel compelled
To justify our very, inexplicable being.
I cannot accept that this is all I am.
Perhaps I attempt to turn my life into fiction,
A recognizable ebb and flow imposed upon
The tumultuous scatter of existence.
(Either way, the end to the self is unknown;
I can offer no apology there; My methods
Of navigation however erratic
Will have to suffice . . . )
Copyright 2014 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.