2016 03 24
Huddled in long coat against blasting wind,
Albert strides city street to coffee shop,
thinking about story he wants to write
that describes angst of our industrial culture.
Then old gray-bearded man begging for change
grips his arm and peers deep into his eyes,
so he leans close to better hear his words
that hiss like whispers of a snake in grass.
"Though I seem to speak these entangled thoughts,
that slither through your brain like laughing snakes,
they flow not from my own self-enclosed mind
for I think my sponge brain channels thought waves
from other people, since these words I speak
are not my own thoughts, so my brain must act
like a radio that receives thought waves
that beam from minds of people all around
who think these thoughts, so I hear all their thoughts,
or else my lonely isolated brain
hallucinates these visions from their minds
and invents these thoughts, so I have to speak
my thoughts to pretend I am not I insane.
I am not insane because all my thoughts
are coherent visions that organize
random perceptions that beam in my eyes,
so my eyes suck into vortex of hope
everything I see happen in the world,
and all the visions of movies and books
I ever saw blossom from dead tree limbs
of my brain shaped like webs of galaxies,
and my brain assembles knowledge from facts
to generate complete vision of truth,
yet no one else but me perceives this truth,
for I invent my own truth in my head
based on everything that I ever saw,
and other people see different things happen
so they invent their own truths in their heads,
and all our truths together beam from brains
in rainbows of a thousand different hues.
Perhaps real truth is a blend of all truths
so we babble at each other with words
and argue about what is real or not,
what is an illusion and what is fact,
till we concede basic facts we all see,
then we together create one world view,
except we could all be wrong so our view
deceives us with illusions we think true.
All I know is I am hungry right now
so I want to eat an apple and sing."
Pulling old five dollar bill from his wallet,
Albert folds it into his trembling hand
then continues on to warm coffee shop
where he writes tale about a mad blind seer,
whose words encode visions in cryptic spells,
while eating apple pie of languid faith.