Intellectual reality is a battle
in which one tries to sustain sanity,
of freedom of thought,
of purpose,
of new purpose.
(By way of book-poles in a canvas tent,
among the wretched woods of City.)
You are trying to sustain a meme of some good light.
Something better to sail,
paper or a clean metal.
To complete the voyage
with enough crew,
to sustain this new
that other, main-land.
Your fingerprints are not even wet with
enough chalk to paint your own outline.
And there you are.
Doing it in the street, prouder.
Proudest.
We are the spinning, commercial run-on the flames,
that have no heroes left to burn, no middle men to blame.
And you’re sitting around talking about some Dylan verse
That never did. Still hasn’t, and for all we haven’t known,
worked.
We are hoping to get along some day.
Someway, same-ways.
It’s the most common feeling;
the one you’re, we’re,
Herein cursed…
