No eternal soul imprisoned

In body

No res cogitans, that thinks and therefore is

But not, too, simple chemical activity in a lump of matter

A superstructure, rather, on electric base

This is more like it.

This is where the sense lies dormant

Until your language awakens it.


Yes, this is as close as it gets to illumination

Your mind is Bioshock

Or sometimes Need for Speed


Can you, in the pacing spectacle of moons and suns

In viral sequential madness of our brains

Discern what others, in less cynical idiom

Would call a pattern



Can we, adamant leaves in unreal clusters

Preposterous in our unfinished shame

Our glowing postures, sucked out in syringes

Sickness, plague of belittled reason

Absolve the sins that don’t stain

Berate churchbells for beating impotently into

Nothing and sky


And bleed the roads and seas one last time

To sabotage the sainthood

Silenced by sepulchers

With maladroit muttering of words

That never even gained the weight of meaning

But hanker

In the nightly sky where we in fact live.