There are only so many
(‘bout a quarter of a million),
Most of which are obsolete
Or beyond my comprehension.
Blessed is the remainder,
The swirling at the bottom,
The backwash, the last few
Vibrant leaves in autumn.
What if I use them all?
The tank (dry and broken)
Endlessly repeats the same
Words already spoken.
What if nothing new forms?
The tank produces, yes,
Strangely familiar shapes of things.
The perceptive detect the jest.
They notice the form dances
And loves, and rots, and careens
In much the same manner
As things they’ve often seen.
They come in droves, knocking,
Grey shadows on my mind
Who want to know the reason,
Would have me turn back time
To vast creative landscapes
Where nothing’s been before,
The inner frontier (my neurons)
Just waiting to be explored.
What if, instead, I wait awhile
For inspiration to appear,
For clouds to part impressively
So that my purpose is made clear?
Meanwhile the numb starts to spread
As others drain the pipes
Of all potential outputs
(The fruits of labor are past ripe).
I’d refrain from mere lucidity,
Taste freedom, let it flow
Over the rim of commitment,
Where thoughts are known to roam.
Or maybe I could hold them
In a closet, in the back.
That way they’re safe for later,
Waiting (patient) for attack.
Although perhaps too desperate
Are those held silent in the wings
To be combined intuitively,
Convey the countless things
That they cannot contain themselves,
Hidden beneath the bed;
The bottled words are bursting,
Begging to be said.
Nor will I ever, can I ever
Hope to know them all.
In terms of storing our creations,
Our skulls are rather small.
In which case, I do confess,
My worries are unfounded;
Our capacity is minuscule,
The possibilities are unbounded.
And what more, when it’s time
(if such a time ever might occur)
To wrap up the devouring,
New terms will have emerged.
For every one consumed,
Three more fill its place.
Like vacancies in the infinite,
I cannot keep up pace.
Chase the inner turning
Gears of voluble expression.
Allow me to touch the mists
Of beauty, humor, and intention.
Though (I realize) I musn’t grasp
The twinkling, formless moments.
To tap the pipe beyond the tank
That runs through us is my torment.
So let me settle it (here and now);
The task is far beyond me.
But I must attempt somehow
This daunting, madman’s reverie.