I’ve done it now.
I’ve stepped into It.
It’s gotten all over my shoe and
It’s made walking a squishy awkward.
Also, a certain quantity
of the material
ended up in dollops
on the rug in the front hall,
like a band of slugs that
woke up and had no idea
where they were.
Too stunned to move.
Just laying there like a constellation
of invertebrates collectively embodying
a deeper meaning.
Like tea leaves.
They must have come-to
and seen one other located just-so:
everyone splayed out on the rug,
and said each to each,
holy shit, man,
you seein’ what I’m seein’?
Now the other pant leg is tainted.
From trying to pop the bad shoe off with the good one.
From trying to minimize the damage.
The damage was mostly psychic in nature,
but resulted in the urgent, instinctual need
to get that bad shoe right off there,
and played itself out as a kind of manic shuffle
that started in the hip and by the time it
got down to the good foot was like a
man teetering on the edge of the cliff
trying to pry the whole cliff up into the sky
by leveraging it all against a little stone
which had adhered to a certain insidious material on his shoe.
My foyer is full of grimacing angels.
We are never alone. Remember that.
Consciousness solves one problem,
but still, It gets shaken all over the walls, anyway.
Some painters capitalize on this instinct,
but I don’t have quite the right mindset
to call this a job well done.
I’ve done it now, you see.
I’ve taken the bait.
I’ve considered the evidence–
and it would seem
I have a choice to make.
I might have a choice to make.
Maybe not the one I think?
You know how these things go:
a good mind can run with one choice
for a couple decades if you give it
some room to work.
Where does Love fit into all this choosing?
Funny thing that, isn’t it?
The heart chooses like this:
One of Everything, please.
Hold the slugs.
I love you and the world
you rode in on.
Without my heart,
I’m just making choices
A – B > Scenario 1.278
to the natural log
of my bitterness.
And that’s, well,
that’s a tad disconcerting.
Jesus has suggested
via various mind melds
and the suggestions
of mutual friends
that if I want,
I might go out later
and get myself a mohawk.
That’s how serious
things have become