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Poem

I sabotaged my eight-millimeter childhood.
I never knew Sartre
But I contorted my latex face,
Burying my nothingness in family films.
My child was scripted to be ugly, skipped over
In comic relief.

Only recognizable as Menoetius, 
My only animation was insolence.
I believed nothing in myself,
I knew nothing.
 
I sought my masquerade in 
Metaverse avatars,
Really just 2D analog shadows, 
Swaying waves of gray on ashen tv tubes. 

Without convictions, I was convicted. 
My craven rudeness  landed me
In squalid  wreckage,
The debris of my dormant sea,
Forsaken a million or more times,
Rebuffed and scorned,
I succumbed to my dense exhaustion.

I shut down where sleep had no form,
Where space-time is an illusion. 
Some hint of dream touched and aroused me.
Some anamnesis so much greater than any containment!
I awakened sweaty, wretched, and authentically flawed,
savoring the sudden phenomenal enigma,
Ready to learn the endless patterns 
                                           of all the passions and sciences.

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