The thought process,
Worn like a Wampanoag belt,
Felt stiff, at times, and, at times,
Mighty proud– what
A thing ‘a beauty.
What, it’s only beadery, and
Strung together electric twine;
I had a hard time separating
Mine from the leather,
That organ you’d rather keep,
And I don’t blame ya.
But if you’d rather weep,
And I don’t blame ya,
Let that liquor seep through,
Light it up like the
End of all things.
Stow it, ashen, deep in the
Imperial archives, along with
All the trash and the other
Sacred objects, there alongside
The butterfly carcass.
The living thing, it fluttered
Up and flew away, like air,
Like here. It is here.
Do you, like I,
Tremble inside
These epic halls
Of knowledge?
Does the fear of knowledge
Grip you in its monolithic jaw?
Does the fear of not knowing
Blind you to the nature
Of knowing itself?
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