it was my birthday and i was drunk. i was to turn twenty-one.
nietzche and i were sitting at a table somewhere- perhaps
at a dive. perhaps in a park. perhaps it was both.
it does not matter. it was night-time.
up in the sky was the stuff that's there.
and nietzche pointed upward. his pointing finger
rised like bread in an oven. i stared until
he said, "that's the answer to your question."
question? what question? i replied.
what a sage. he smiled and said, "any question."
the godhead in the quivering sea-light reflected on.
he is born.
man and woman came true because god drew them
and they opened boxes.
out of boxes came more.
the dreams of man and woman that came
out of the boxes
became the godhead.
i point to that knowing, because i turned wise.
it is that.
the coordination between the godhead and
the people tightened-
the dreams of man and woman
opened the box of hope.
they held so closely partly because
they were scared, but mostly
because they couldn't help it.
at some point my life was saved-
like how i imagined it all along,
a great bow shooting me outward.
an astral projection.
across the seven seas and past
the pictures of pluto which fail to impress me.
past kuiper, past
it is my torso which lead me,
for what it is which therein resides
is a heart.
and thus the nihilist spoke-
in the foreground, answers to answers. reverberations.
i am in love with shapes.