The theory of Reality.
The theory of Knowledge.
The theory of Value.

And yet we don't even know if we exist.

Life is complicated.
Consciousness is sticky stuff.
Our path is predetermined.
Enjoy the ride.

Can we kiss on Friday?

( Yes I said this in grade six)

in the womb's quiet,
tiny limbs seek open space,
cord loops like a snare.

breathless, he tumbles,
head held high where it should bow,
life's thread pulls too tight.

silent prayers rise,
hands reach to untangle fate,
hope clings to the light.

Careful when you find a friend.
It's the most precious thing you will ever discover.

I am but one ash of many,
Remnant of a by-gone fire
Quelled by wind.
I am but of body liquescent,
Mid the showers that brings the mighty tempest.
I am but a leaf of divers,
Anon to fall from agéd branch
As Autumn arrives, and the erst warmth retires.
I am but of common nature,
Who has not the beauty nor uniquity
Of Summer’s flowers,
Nor bids the eye inquisitive
Of the wanderer.
Lo! By dint of Winter’s dawn
Alas, I am to wither.
Supplanted by life anew
And forgotten thereafter.

wherever I go. They're high
as a mountain covered in
snow. They're deep as a valley
and swim around my head. They're

under my covers and rotate my
bed. They squeeze me tight like
a Charley horse, pushing me back
with all their g-force. I bump into them

stone cold sober, raking them up
like leaves in October. They're thick as
a French accent. And hasn't been one
I can circumvent!

Have the windows always been closed?
The blinds, I mean?
What's the point of a window with no light?
The sun, I mean?

The joy is perhaps what I really meant.
Where is the joy?

Why aren't we looking out our windows?
What's so awful we refuse joy?
Simple, simple joy.

A bird leaving its tree.
The breeze pushing the pollen.
Sounds of life and love and laughter and fear.

Oh there it is.
It didn't take very long to remember.

That's why the blinds are closed.
That's why the windows will never be open again.