All my death, life has been my aim;
As though my aim had anything to do with the reality.
As though I could negate the knowing
that from the magazine, through the rifled
uterine cannon, I have been propelled,
spinning into a death slide, inexorably.
As though I could negate the knowing
that life, the explosive charge of me, pulsates
the frustrating awareness of impending
collision and demise.
As though I could negate the knowing
that, along the way, other missiles course
in a profusion of ballistic arcs
crisscrossing dangerously.
As though I could negate the knowing
that stopping places; cars, houses, toys,
loves, dalliances, are no more than
illusory einsteinian relativistic phenomenon
of apparent lack of motion.
As though I could negate the knowing
that in the immutable mathematics,
infinity and zero equate; both an
abstraction beyond comprehension.
As though I could negate the knowing
that reason begs the lies for life;
creating scenes, a drama here or there;
happy or sad. As if by sheer will power
the only end becomes the only illusion.
As though I could negate the knowing
that pain and /or joy, fame and /or fortune;
win and/or lose; success and /or failure
are but scenery in a theater in which
the performer and the audience are one.
All my death, life has been my aim.
As though there really were a target…
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