The Featherweight Before

I don’t know if the Sun had preferences what they might be.

Would a conscious Sun enjoy its solar flares, or would they be an annoyance, like a recurring skin condition? I don’t know if ocean currents have appetites, if cell division is motivated by anything, or how the universe feels about getting older. I wonder if the process of change ever gets tired of it all. Tired of change. I wonder if questions have a generative stage and if so, what are they before they form? Indeed, what was I before I formed?

I wonder why we layer on the plies of days like we’re constructing some pyramid-like destiny out of what ever’s just lying around, our impulses slaves to some obsessive, unseen pharaoh. I don’t know what’s to be done. I wonder what I would do if I did. I wonder why rows of tombstones look like rows of houses, or a city skyline, a garland of piano keys, a quaint picket fence projecting an assumed harmony about the goings-on in that little bungalow.

What difficulty in strange occurrence is it that familiarity becomes such a balm? Why does right take up arms while wrong is so content simply being wrong? Why are the shapes of things so particular? Where does the clock maker find the time? When does hunger not overrule reason? Why do philosophers all wind up in caskets? What on earth were they thinking?

When someone asks you how you feel, does it affect how you feel? I don’t know what feelings are or why they matter. I think a bad feeling that we know well is easier to bear then a confusing new feeling that we don’t know what to do with. What if confusion is just another feeling? I don’t know. I don’t like me when I’m feeling things. I feel like I’m up to no good when I’m feeling good.

There is a kind of liberty in not feeling, but then there are memories, like a jury of peers. And there are verdicts. Rulings we feel compelled to make. We find traction in the calculations. We make hay.

Ruled by questions we render unto Caesar his answers due. Let memory serve. That rock formation looks familiar. I think we’re going in circles.


I don't know who I am

Sprung forth alive from some
featherweight before, where a slant
projection of a protozoic self

Scrawls its base intentions
on the edifice of a blamed hereafter

And vanishes into memory
like a vandal caught tagging a fence