running on empty

(how does this happen?)

today,
and every day
for the last several permutations, I am

the embodiment
of emptiness, a multi-dimensional
emptiness, a reduction

of excess
into intricate song, sung
on a dimension of wind.

(I put string theory to shame.)

today, as I've long
suspected, I might
curl up and disappear,

or I might stumble
into an unmentionable zone
of perhaps, or instead

I might go outside
and wander aimlessly, blinded
by the light of day.

(yeah, blinded.)

I think I'm on the verge
of discovering a new realism
of invisible dimension

in my black heart, a dimension
of the aimless quandary,
inherently amiss.

Indeed, today I'm on the cusp
of charting new trajectories
to the absolute

(freezing point)

of worthlessness.  in time,
I'll make time stand still
and pay attention

while I stumble
into a drive-by shooting
or a lake or oncoming traffic or

perhaps I'll just keep on
walking
until my feet give out.

(incidentally, walking is heaven.)

so, now I propose
that everyone should walk more
and care less.

further, I have come
to the conclusion that poetry
is for the birds.

unfortunately, there are
very few birds who edit reputable
journals or even read.

(they sing very nicely though.)