I have one penny of certainty,
to buy a glimpse of sky.
Then hunger and reckless
vortex of night.
Mankind is as sweet
as a machine’s ambition.
I am the bitter cog.
But allow something like a flower
to grow from this
stump of philosophy.
A fragrance or hope,
a whiff of purpose.
To suffer is a fortune,
and pleasure a Pyrrhic victory.
When I lay paint
on the canvas, I press
hard all the colors
towards a grey pact.
There was once
bright red love,
cold blue thought,
intense yellow joy,
dark green solitude.
Today the mess
is grey and this totality
cannot be undone.
I carry this enterprise
of chaos towards a prism;
perhaps if reflected
far beyond the senses,
this senselessness,
will make sense.
Beyond Language 