A spot on the car seat carries all the weight of holding on to nothing.
I sit pressed
Upon it now, listening
To tightfisted rain,
Watching the heaviness grow in my cornering skull as
Nietzsche rattles amongst the inner bone or
Perhaps this is Kant?
Though what if this swallowing thinking has arisen without influence of anything but the trappings of my own mind caught
Between a period of time not
Driven by expectation.
I could let the thoughts grow, the weight lay heavy sitting in the driveway of my empty home,
And await the spiral of an obligatory force,
The next occasion in which anyone expects to eye me alive,
In color and flesh and goodness.
But in this intermitted period of waiting hanging
Onto nothing but my own
Decision of how
To warp time beneath my tires,
I exist nowhere but in my own conscious and in my knowledge
Of being alive.
I watch time tick in the waving windshield wipers,
Revealing pavement against the rain and
A vision of the world before me:
Turning in the wind,
Colorless and without hold to the arms that birthed them.
Chipping white paint, folding at the end
Of this low, dishonest decade.
Another wave of wiping arms:
Scuttling between overhead drops of acid,
Licking up the burning sensation of knowing this to be its fate.
Or perhaps that was a chipmunk,
Or a rat,
Or any body holding fur that thought it could make it through something like this
And this is all there is:
Defeatist leaves and nihilistic rodents, holding on in this final hour until perhaps the pouring balks
And then me, turning into
Myself in all my centered imbalance,
Denying my existence
Can materialize outside
Of external sightings.
Letting the hour hold me
As I drink up this gaze of old world dying before me.
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