What was the thing… the thing… the thing that I thought when I was unthinking?
That very thing that kept me motionless at night, tossing and turning as I greeted my morning ink and paper.
The thing that stirred my atoms so, and underwrote the movement of my fingers;
The thing, that very thing that mattered most, yet could only be measured as the ether.
I tried and tried and tried to figure it out.
With rapid fire thoughts, discharged from a trench of doubt.
I tried to tag it, hunt it, tack it to a board, and when that failed,
I tried to lure it, obscure it, shape it to the world, and when that failed,
I tried to ruin it. Yes, Ruin it!
With religion and irreligion, absurdity, and hate.
(I even started a small cult in the basement of my estate.)
And when that failed, and when it all failed,
I prayed. Oh yes, I prayed – upon Whitman’s grass and Plath’s oven-rail.
And, blew out my mind until it swelled out of my ears and eyes and brain-blinded my mouth.
And, I was ruined for it. Ruined! Housed in a split-level soul with no windows out.
And, my throat, my throat became a fuselage of incomprehensible shouts.
And, when I did finally think of the thing that I thought when I was unthinking,
There was no love anymore, no love…
only hearts dipped in ink and splattered across a canvass in an attempt to drop a beat.
This troubled me, for I knew love the most; I had even practiced it in my sleep.
But, love was no longer relevant; it was a biological at best, a lubricant of sweat and dribble.
And, since love was not considered a variety of reason, nobody would dare risk “liking” the thing that was so out of season.