friday, march 7

of all those i have ever read about,
been told of, or encountered in practice
there are two philosophical schools
which are really accurate delineations
of either my life or what i ought to be doing with it

they can be concisely defined
as the why not philosophy
and the worst possible thing

("why not" may or may not best be written
with a question mark)

both are essentially self explanatory
there's nothing i can say about why not
that you couldn't derive from those two words

and although the worst possible thing
perversely enough (but not surprisingly)
takes a little more thought

anyone who has ever tried to crawl into a bottle
almost dialed the phone and failed
punched bricks with bare knuckles
said nothing, least of all what you really meant
when anything at all was required
probably knows what i mean.

why not is a kind of imperative
why not talk to her?
why not escape the earth's gravity well and fill the universe with life?
why not leave the windows open, drive a few thousand miles,
climb the rocks, take the backroads, leave the country,
admit that safety is an illusion, stop faking clever?

the worst possible thing
is walking quietly back to your room,
it is letting someone see the expression on your face
that reflects the self destruction charging through your brain,
it is in the bottle, in the dialtone you don't do anything with,
the sea you are not crossing, the ones you turn away from and the things you
should not say to the few who don't turn away from you
the keyboard where the strings should be
where someone's skin would be
a better instrument
that you aren't

i fucking hate the worst possible thing.

tags: topics/poem

p1k3 / 2003 / 3 / 7