There can be no knowledge outside the self,
but what does the self really know?
It knows pink lines marching up the arms
and knocking at the teeth,
demanding entrance to the mouth
and through it to the body,
the sluggish heart.
It knows the easily controverted
math of the organs,
the way biology pretends at balancing equations;
instead plays games of equivocation,
nobody being the wiser concerning
where the blood really goes.
The world is nothing but
billions of selves parading around,
never truly seeing anyone else,
all deluded by their insides'
dream of being the apple of the universe's eye.

05/14/2007

Posted on 05/15/2007
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