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metaphysics

by tim sullivan


Cynical and Nihilistic
Do not mean a thing.
Instead they paint a swatch of murk
Over what I perceive—
A slur against belief against belief.

Will that word evaporate,
Belief? I think it will
Unless our desire sustains it.
But why desire it? Isn’t it
Better to know? To see, best of all,
Without words or, failing that,
To birth words from sight
In uninherited strings?

Any unmediated thing is
More miraculous and large
Than all the heights of
Our imagined beauties.

Is that nihilism?
Certainly it admits
Unsettling implications—
What does one do
Without sentiment?
And what sobriety
Does not conceal
A cherished assumption?
To think we attach
Ourselves to ideas
The way we do to our mothers,
The sidewalks and
Swimming pools,
The abuses even, of
Our childhoods!

What universe,
What law within the world
Of our thought will
Not shatter against
The smallest outcropping—
A rain in the desert,
The dislocation of the sun
In the sky, a sudden glimpse
Into the seamless skin
Of the intertia we brush
Up against—
Of its inevitable inaccuracy?

The succession of cataclysms
Is endless, nudging gnosis
Ever further away, like,
Of course, the expanding
Walls of the universe

Do you want to think
You’ve caught up to it?
I don’t. Even if it means
I am only the sum of
What passes through me
And stays. Even if time
Makes me unique,
I am a fool for loving it.

[]

copyright © 2003
tim sullivan

 

 


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