A cannoli maker's second-person selfie metaphysic
Post-God voices of you complained: there were so many of youthere were none. And, pre-God, there was less than one of you.
That's a hard call. That's a stern said. Back off in the beginningcolloids of an all-or-nothing exploded you. How scary are you?
The Dough-maker's hand was poised, unseen in the shadows.Then in tactile, alarmingly, quarkily, scrolling and shaping you.
A life-hand a touch. Retreating into the dark. But you becamea baker, the endless maker of same things. Of all people, you!
Your life was repeatedly you. By which of yous it must be said:you meant as the many, these infinite and brittle shells of you.
But you nightmared. Where the hand was clenched like a fistof axiom. Deep in Freudian, nature-nurturing, spacey-lost, you.
Still, shells with wet insides. The ultra-sounds show three timesa pattern, a tireless hand, your genome-own of replicating you.
At night after dinner you'd lean towards your wife and lick herwarm cannoli. (And if she smiled yours, the stars lit up in you.)
Adrogynous, cannoli spin in space. The male, the female, theembryonic (i.e. undecided) meta of the many and a single you.
This poem a Kubrick not a Rubick spin. It needs your name,your seal in the dough. Your all of us. Our un-youing of you.
The parcels arriving
The parcels arriving. There are now in sequences a week.If they're a problem I'll get rid of them. Drowning.They keep coming, parcels arriving in brownwrapping, in silent boxes.Parcels are utterly dumb.I will not open them.Perhaps they're a parcel club and I'm their guardian.They are closed, and neat as a guest at a wedding.They have come alone, nervous, not yet drunk.Is it a symptom of mania to buy online a wantyou then forget?They are as dumbas poor decisions,humiliations, kept in Limbo refusing to die.They are gormless, they are repeating zombie cubes(to drive that road, that corner, again and again)filled with flying space for moths.There are several white boxes stacked up like a hospitalbuilding, with fleuros, white walls and help! help! in-side them, people in white coats and frames.They have nothingto say about allthe recent deaths.I must consider this: parcels that arrive may not be gifts.They sit there, waiting, like poems, like probabilities.If I open them I must decide, this, not that, thenfrom one revelation good or bad my day will flow.Contingent. I amalive, choosingwill change me.Someone has a big square gun and keepsshooting big square bullets of cardboard at me.Something sick and