Flying, Beeing
This must be what clinically depressed means.
Drive. Clean. Watch tv. Forget the names
of every flower in the temperate zone.
Go on alone. Keep sleeping. Saturday’s
the sweetest day, all joy, you’re off the clock,
participation’s optional. Each email
a flame of passion. Insects have souls too,
consciousness, a feeling of Flying. Beeing.
Not only humans long for liberation,
no body, no soul, no mirror, no black hole.
Are not the satisfactions of being a good man
among our fellow men enough to sustain us
anymore? A rock thrown, a crow, nemesis.
As I think of things to do I do them.
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