Purpose

Some say that purpose is a matter of overcoming contradictions, of forcing one path, of willing away the other voices, from within or without. Then there is an end. Then, with luck, meaning. But the trick here is to not question that meaning, not open that box of cat. For how could purpose ever be the cure of paradox? Eyes wide shut, maybe. But purpose.....purpose is at best like finding oneself, an oxymoron.

What makes you unique?

With brandished wit, wisdom, and probity
Of structured aesthetics, like me,
Ten thousand snowflakes sought back the sea
To question whence its uniformity

I'm a believer

I saw death depressed, in a rut, recumbent,
silk shroud slipping off a greasy paunch
Spotted with spit and the flesh of chicken
deep fried in palm wine, which he now and then
Licked at to soothe a chapped underlip, all the
while regarding with envious haste a haunch
Of pork that lay wasted on the prophet, who
but sat instead philosophizing on women
And the general impropriety of underclothes

The lost serpent

The inconsequences of my life are reared in muted strife against the absurdity of yours, not poised to bite, nor to burn out, prepared; but unfanged, ashamed, with only this hiss to curl, whimper, and abide.