For René Descartes

When I am sleeping in a
stove with my reason
Dismembering the Earth
into sun swept notions,
into weeping globs of
color and doubt,

I want banana bread
baking beneath me
Bolstering my cogito,
Reminding my self to
breathe in the grandma scented evenings
and be.

To peel the universe away
like cellophane
As you did,
To chase the echo towards
its sound,
To shake the once lifted
veil
to its inevitable
conclusion


this is my dream desire,

and yet I sit alone

in a dark wood teeming
                                       
 with distractions that fall
upon my senses like leaves
upon the ground.



The click of a pen near
the smoke of the chimneys,

Rising over the houses,
bleeding into the cracks
on the edge of my window,
where the warmth of her
voice meets

the shape of her neck on
crease of my hands as

the thread of her hair
wheels around that
finger so slowly it winds
my future into a spiral
of fatalism and flesh.



I’m sensation’s
plaything,
wandering up my spine into
the world.



Seeking faith in my
fingertips,

in each flaming synapse
that pulses through my skull,



but what if God really
did die

In Vienna,
Of pen pricks and boredom
Of uselessness and fear?



What if he’s buried
beneath a marble
Question mark to big too
dig him out?

Could I still dream my
life into meaning?
Could I still graft
geometry to my doubt?



Or am I just another
wasted question to
stack upon the tomb of
God?



Another plastic bag
waltzing with the wind,



Another lanky
disinterested boy in the scaly
arms of a demiurge?



Or could I be like you
Just another beggar
seeking some bread?