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: 

Leaves, 

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: 

A squirrel, 
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,
Weighting, 
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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