Ignorant

[Thorns Have Roses]

Sitting in a stack of books
Alone in someone else's thoughts
I learn life's secrets
Understanding less and less
I am ignorant


An endless parade of identical days
Stretch toward the horizon
My fractured feelings renewed
Everything is backwards
I don't know why


I don't follow the advice of my elders
I don't listen to my own advice either
Intractable neurotic
Victim of caprice
I am ignorant


I watch people interact
Consciousness dancing between them
The flow of humanity
Though I want to take part
I don't know how


I'm told to have faith
Everything will work out fine
It hasn't yet
There must be a trick to it
I am ignorant


I want recognition
An exchange of narratives
But my heart's brocade is blank
Who are you? I am asked
I don't know who


If you reached your hand out
It would pass straight through me
Eyes meet and I melt away
You can't save me
I am ignorant


Wanting bittersweet relief
I find my wallet empty
The bottle's been useless for a while
Something will work
I don't know what


I can't even finish this
The words aren't coming
And even if they did
I have no thoughts to put them on
I am ignorant

 

[Horton-Scorton]

Sitting in a stack of books
Alone in someone else's thoughts
I learn life's secrets
Understanding less and less
I am ignorant


An endless parade of identical days
Stretch toward the horizon
My fractured feelings renewed
Everything is backwards
I don't know why


I don't follow the advice of my elders
I don't listen to my own advice either
Intractable neurotic
Victim of caprice
I am ignorant


I watch people interact
Consciousness dancing between them
The flow of humanity
Though I want to take part
I don't know how


I'm told to have faith
Everything will work out fine
It hasn't yet
There must be a trick to it
I am ignorant


I want recognition
An exchange of narratives
But my heart's brocade is blank
Who are you? I am asked
I don't know who


If you reached your hand out
It would pass straight through me
Eyes meet and I melt away
You can't save me
I am ignorant


Wanting bittersweet relief
I find my wallet empty
The bottle's been useless for a while
Something will work
I don't know what


I can't even finish this
The words aren't coming
And even if they did
I have no thoughts to put them on
I am ignorant

Alone with someone's ideas...this is the martial grinning of academia...in company with others alone in someone's ideas...this is the martial orgasm of academia. The secret is that the reader can choose, in varying degrees, to be the creator. How would Hume be understood by uneducated hustlers and thugs? How could Hegelian history be treated to its own devices, now that it's old? What if Kant was a liar? Read Kant's ethics and think of him as a shady bastard. Laugh at his thoughts. Take Marx seriously, then Hobbes, then anarchists and fascists. Write their essays. Believe and discard. I idea-fondle the ideas of others. It is a penetrative act. I am the phallus. The mysterious pink box is the idea farm, the book. Read books and watch arguments become aware deep down they are fallacious and redefine the true beliefs of thinkers. Toss a coin for a belief system. Scratch out every I in a book. Masturbate to Derrida or Krishnamurti, read the Bible on LSD. Get drunk and read Joyce. Then sober up and toss the drunken stack into the misleading idea cabinet.

Life is a game. Grown-ups aren't real. They made growing up up. It's a sham, an act. Understanding little and affirming ignorance. I am neither ignorant nor learned, says a psychic explorer. He communes with herbs but does he have a foot? The paradox of the negation and creation, web-foot, limbs buzz hermit.

Advice is listened to by sons who gasoline stain their hands. Guidance is the shifting from the elder and wiser. The gut speaks loud too. Follow it and destroy caprice by saying no to the victim name. Man of caprice- follows his gut and old words into the right tent. Victim of caprice sliced like tramps by Jack the Ripper. And the choice of words in your mouth! A man of caprice has chance and grows will. A victim doesn't recover, but sits confused and still.

The game of culture begins at three. It encourages new rules. The expectant wrongs are the cheatings. Each man wants to flood every other, like God himself. But Noah is the decider, and decide cruising as maestro of an ark. The critters, fellow men, sort them in twos or threes as proves convenient. Decipher tongues and talk logic and x to y to logic head, talk tenderness and loss to mr. emotion circuit, talk wants and needs to the paupers who fixate on the bread of life. Decode someone's level, and encode a hybrid level combining yours and theirs into the elliptic code improv that forms your soul-blend language and body language circuits of social gamers. Organize games of your own.

Faith is action without vision of the effect. The limbs should work to the tune of some mammal climbing a tree first and proud little thing. Do it do it give questions a scoff for a period of time till maybe the faith gives you gems or reveals itself impotent and misleading.

I can't save you. Who are you? A psychedelic wordsmith and castaway on tryptamine island. But infinite more words just scratch the surface. You could be all of us, all of it, just a pinch you like.

What saves is eat self-pity and try on a new world, witness permeations and waves of sound, experiment with logs and feel the backbone. Courage in the streets as games unfold rules are written and smiles as the function of unfiltered experiential signals, info and probable truisms.