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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