tight
tight is my travel
tight is my walk
tight is my schedule
and tight is my talk
no step to squander
no word to hang loose
on the catenary of my thoughts
no, my threads are tight
and I pride in their tension
and I tout of my tightness
to me
to others... that wouldn't be tight.
tight is how my mind pulls all of my pieces
tight is how they have learned to act.
"eat" my mouth is told, "and don't waste one mouthful"
"fill your whole volume, cut the most with each bite.
count all your swallows, and make sure they're low,
for this boring consumption is painfully slow".
"move" my mind bellows, and muscles comply,
"and make sure no flexing goes wasted thereby".
"it's fine", lies my mind, while my massive mule-body
hurries step after dutiful brisk step,
unable to serve the speed of thought
that mind says he desires.
"quiet" he orders, when emotions cry out
and that's not what the social occasion is about.
"find" orders mind, to no clear other
when the tasks are complete and time now hangs loose.
"find me a purpose, whatever that is".
yet he also enjoys it when he can refuse.
"maybe someone else can hand me a purpose?"
"scroll", he orders my fingers, who feed my mindless eyes and brain,
but the offerings are all stale and blasé,
old ash that mind knows and has nothing for mind.
"eat", he orders my mouth,
who grasps at the closest flavor
like the junkie at his next hit.
snacks chomped up and milks gulped down,
quiet digestion is still not enough.
"more", he sterns,
and I overeat, body confused but perhaps relieved
that the heavy meals may put mind to torpid sleep.
whatever quiets down that fucking nothing
that sits at the bottom of this fucking life.
he relishes in telling the others what to do
but that only works when there's something to do.
believing himself omniscient
when he listens to the world
and parrots exasperated
"I know, I know, I KNOW".
he mistrusts every unknown
like the old in new clothes,
he miserly allows the new
only because he keeps the secret safeguard
that he can say "I told you so"
when the new fails to fulfil
what he thought it should do.
I'm not sure whom he says this to.
"being is pointless", he says,
"and I need a point".
"feel", he commands heart
for he heard that's a key
and convinced, tightly pulls
on the subtle heartstrings.
but the heart under tension
does not breathe nor feel
no matter how tight
mind commands, begs, or appeals.
"see, that doesn't work either!"
he complains to the void.
and crumples the strings
into a frustrated ball
while heart bounces back
to its usual soft cycle
of whatever it does
when it's not told what to do.
with no one to guide him and nothing to do,
mind's desperation grows as he feels that he never
will reach a solution
a full satisfaction
eternal absolute.
and though death may seem to offer black respite,
he doesn't believe that is what's beyond.
The victimized petty master
unwilling to let go
holds on tight
