NotebookOne.Fifteen.Untitled

by j z provo

						7 aug 88

  But the Ghost is the tiny thing...
  Dripping thru the perceptual seive,
  like images of future lives laughing
  in spite of _their_ predicament.

  Dare we jump the chasm of 
  Belief? And run headlong into
  the land of the Walking Dead;
      mud-plastered faces
      mock our Emptyness
      with their own
      Witless Eyes.

  What dummy-like lives!
  They erupt from the soil
          -free!-
  only to burden themSelves
  with the Useful
           Odds and Ends.

  Better to plummet,
  screaming like a Mad Ape
  Into the bottomless Abyss
  of Life-in-life.

  Soaring ever lower,
  Our thoughts twist
                    and turn
  As our perceptions Shatter
  into the stark blades of Reality.

  They follow the patterns of our thoughts.
  The Walking Dead shriek hysterically,
  for their blades of Perception
  carve out their reality;
  Just as We carve them up!

  Our neverending Battle comess to a close.
  The Victor?
      ...the metal of Perception is tempered
      at a lesser heat than that of Reality...




