After each night

I always end up in myself

I am who I am,

but know not whom

I am where I am,

but know not where

I notice the dark thumps

inside my ribcage

and the soughing

of the nervous system

Thoughts sit around

polishing themselves

like cats after a meal

I don't know what to make of this,

but then I never did

I am part of the ongoing,

which doesn't even seem causal

I circle myself

like a band of wolves

'round a waining campfire

in a Jack London story,

but my center is hollow

like the eye of a Caribbean hurricane;

my swirl around me

changes everything

while remaining the same,

like a river vortex

Time is all I have,

and I partition it

into theoretical sections

that cause annoyance

Death is waiting / coming,

but constitutes nothing

but a state / absence of a state,

identical to the absence

before conception

Any annoyance / pain I feel,

is simply something

I'm informed of

that doesn't really concern me

Pain is a newscast,

like everything else

I am turning the dial

of an old radio receiver,

tuning in to the shortwave pain

from all those exotic destinations

down my body

I don't have to listen

All the occurrences

I have foolishly regarded as

absolutely necessary

- love, comfort, money, friends,

creativity -

are just make-up;

those ghastly, ghostly masks

that old, worn-out scarecrows

put on for show