“I Am the Thesis”

“I Am the Thesis”

Í am the thesis of a latter-hour’s passing, the gauge,

Justified, set, the obstacle, the treasured triumph, some  truth; a willingness,
Perhaps, to see, to feel, rendered remains in escrow, moot and meaningless,
In themselves, the inherited simple gifts of breath and being.  Age
Has overcome he who would speak—bedclothes that drink
Me beckon, sirens to the rest of me as friends and vandals
Reconnoitre what is left by accident or design. Nightly shrouds,  candles
In the daylight greeting, physics of the present think
Me old, or older. Nearer to the least demanding obfuscation
In the glare of vacant eyes and vapid conversation. I am that son
Who long ago meandered through what then were the Hills of San Diego to run
The gamete of cows at pasture and their foregathering bull in rapid calculation
Of the time it takes to retrace my steps and reach the fence in time
while all the while no more credible witness than memory surveying
Prudence in that outer world; I was that child  beyond the love of misbehaving.
Action, then, logged with the company I kept―the audience no less than God,
Himself. Yes.  Foreshadowing of later eternities while the slightest bow
To the many selves within confused the tissues of my yearning,  shadows
Greater in the strophe than antistrophe in thought and wanderlust, the sod
Reducing me to willing patience of my body’s rhyme. Accident has stilled
Those ancient psalms now; more venal notions of longevity and meditation
cauterised all former innocence in lawless joys
to gaze on wishes in a wash of mitigation.
Baseless thought engaged within a centrifuge runs counter to the will
Of atoms, speaking tongues in form and mantras, melding all imagination
With the claustrophobic slant of worlds immortalized in cuneiform
And agoraphobic hieroglyphs of deeds performed before I ever came to be.
To this day these self-made gods gainsay my life
And monopolise themselves in catacombs below my earthly station. The knife
Was given to the Father of All Nations in His passion’s later life’s alarm;
His intention, wisely, was to use it, true.
But in the end, His certitude becomes Eternal Law,
His satisfaction, the bourne of centuries wrought
from just beyond Sadrat’ul-Muntahá.

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