Teleoeschaton

I think in circles,

and wonder,

what must it be like,

to think in straight lines,

A to B to C.

Crossing west fourth,

skipping lake edge

of gray slush

under the dull shine

of high sodium.

Back where we began.

Dating the same girl.

Feet wet from misplaced winter gray.

Working the same job.

Watching the same shows

on television.

Reading the same poets

and looking for more,

trying to make something for myself

as I've tried before,

kept awake by two sirens--

one the call of a regular salary,

the other, ten hours of no-thought,

five days a week.

I've written for six months,

by force of will,

or circumstance?

To what end?

I think in words,

and words,

it's nearly endless

in bed,

longing for an end,

but there is no end

to this thinking in words.

Let us study the poets,

the philosophers,

turning symbols into words.

Study the scientists,

the mathematicians,

decipherers of those symbols,

Study the painters,

who let the symbols be.

I read the word,

eschatology.

And its everywhere now,

in Wallace and Levertov,

in crazy Terence McKenna,

and the X-Files I'm watching

again, completing a 13 year cycle,

which might mean something--

that dread solipsism,

the word creeping in,

everywhere I look,

like the distant rumble of trains

as the word is read,

and the flickering of lights

as my beloved walks beneath them.

I will never understand her:

on my way to work,

she said she would get high,

and listen to music,

and light candles,

and so I asked her,

promise me this:

look at the clock,

when you think fifteen minutes have passed,

and that night I got a text--

“I'm sorry to say, but time is passing,

as it always does.”

I look into her eyes,

and see myself reflected there,

and hope it's proof

that she is there,

watching me,

and that I am here,

being watched,

and hope that

being watched

is proof enough,

to know I am.

To know we are,

and never mind the end times,

once around,

in fullness,

together,

will be

our lot.