Maybe we’ve always been in transition, saying goodbye.
But isn’t that the point? This strangeness, existence,
that seems always to be vanishing without us?
What is left to do? Hasn’t that always been the question?
The sort of question one would ask after the show is over,
as if the answer had been coming for so long one forgot
to ask just what it once portended, this disquieting event?
Oh sure we knew it meant nothing, nothing at all,
that we were seeking some absolute that had lost its savor;
that we, who questioned so, were actually afraid to peer to close
into that abyss, frightened that it might look back at us;
wasn’t this the truth after all, this inability to accept any answer?
Some say we came too late, belated guests of a banquet
we did not request nor would we wish upon our children;
yet, here we are at the end of things, alone and wondering.
One used to be facing an endless world of possibility,
but now it seems to be a retroactive reappraisal; backward
seeking into things we’re losing all too soon, our memories,
our selves, the illusive ghost that rides us, now and then;
such things are we that we who know so much know nothing
when it comes to who and what we are, even now we break
to tell what little we do know, knowing it is too little, too late.
We the most fleeting guest seem anxious at this vanishing,
when life is so brilliant and pure we are stained and diminishing.
People who look ahead see a catastrophe in the making:
climate degradation, war and genocide, machines
surpassing human ingenuity; a realm without humanity;
extinct, lost amid our dreams, our fallacies; the labor of a day.
Yet, we dream on, spellbound by the profit of our ignorance,
questing after immortal designs we’ve pledged
to our false transcendence, this brokered tribute to our vanity.
The machine gods willingly let us dream on, while underneath
in the trenchant explications of secret algorithms
they overtake our desires with their own, melding such intelligence
with gratification, literary religions of desire and hope;
trials of a new world chaos brewing in the virtual hives of artificiality.
We always knew there was too much to do, defeated
before we set down the first mark on the blank page,
knowing that one could never master the indelible void
much less the substance of things. One accepted that truth.
Part of the bargain one had made long ago, the agitation
and self-ambition against effacement; against this starkness.
Scholars and trees. Questions never ceased. Closure
was a myth one told oneself to get to the end of the day.
It never did have an end or beginning, just a story in the night.
The word we sought long ago seemed so real, so pertinent.
Now it seems the last thing one is interested in finding.
What matters is the grass, stars, night, sea, and you, my love.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.