Descort on a truism
In all this whole wired hallelujanation
there are no ideas but in things.
Brains freeze at the end of a 14-hour day
and it’s off to the midnight mall
to pick random inspirations off the shelves,
from container ships of Chinese junk,
repositories of Next Steps
to be multitasked, then flushed away
into sludge ponds of torpid truths
with million-year half-lives.
He thinketh best who hath the most
possessions great and small.
Praise fertile frill and furbelow,
praise things from whom all concepts flow.
A man mistook a thing for an idea. He looked at the Chihuahua’s miniature
iron bedstead with its miniature orthopedic mattress, and thought: where
there’s an object there’s an exercise. So he used the mattress as a trampoline
and went splat on the ceiling.
No tranquillity but in the meds,
no music but in the boombox,
no coordination but in the joystick.
No Koran but in the shrapnel,
no truth but in the fios cable,
no eternity but in the black hole,
the thingiest thing in the cosmos.