alive delirious moving

ben goertzel

Can I end this collection of poems here, with a bunch of stupid shit?

Well, what began with 

But seriously.  

Arbitrariness is half the equation.

And  my mind, turning somersaults through its own passionate 
Mobius strips, could continue forever.  Or not.  But there are other 
nuts to crack, other Famous Amos Chocolate Chip Cookies with 
Pecans to crumble.   Work awaits me, documents I'd promised to 
write, endless employees to evaluate.  I don't enjoy evaluating them 
at all: they're all doing their best given their inner and outer 
conditions.  Why should I make them feel like shit by pointing out 
the limitations to the universe.  I'm in the middle of mixing down a 
pretty cool song.  I need to go out into the cold yard and build a 
plastic slide slash playhouse for my kids.  It's Christmas day.  I bought 
it for them.  It was moderately expensive.  Why the fuck not.   My 
song is kind of weird, probably no one will like it but me.  But that 
doesn't matter.  It pleases me.  It captures some tiny beautiful part 
of the strange twisting of my soul.   And so with these words I've so 
hastily typed out here.  Perhaps their crystalline significance will 
reflect some light into caverns of your mind, places no one has ever 
been before, places I surely will never venture.  Perhaps they'll bring 
laughter, bafflement, spite.  It really doesn't matter, does it?  Far 
worse crimes have been committed than saving a bunch of text to a 
computer file, than printing out a few dozen pages of nonsense on 
chemically treated, pressed fragments of  murdered trees.  We're all 
murderers anyway.   We kill the universe every moment.  Every 
definite thing is a sin, insofar as sin exists.   This thing I have created 
is no better or worse than others.  I keep on cultivating my garden 
of nonsense, and baby, why the fuck not?  I keep on questing 
impossible unity, in the form of woman, art, or thought.  And why 
the fuck not, baby?  Eh?  

I crave a beauty strange
This fact I cannot change
A twisted kind of brain
Joy all mixed up with pain
A lust mixed up with love
Sometimes I rise above
Sometimes I sink below
(A few things that I know)

Alive, delirious, moving, wonderful, brutish flesh.  Friction of mind, 
friction of bodies.  A few things perfect, flawed, divine.  Look at me 
as if you were a stranger.  Look at me as if you knew my mind.  Read 
my words as if you wrote them in a very strange mood.  Read my 
words as if they'd reached you in a space capsule sent from an alien 
civilization.   Read them as if your lover had vanished inexplicably, 
and their diary, these words, were your only memento.  Read, think, 
don't think.   Read with your hand in your pants, stroking vigorously.  
Rub your juices on the page till the ink blurs.  Mingle sex juice with 
tears.  Understand nothing.  Reach out to grasp everything.   Reach 
out to taste everything and fail, fail, fail.