Tomorrow Knows Something(s) about Never

If only here and now wasn’t as hollow as tomorrow seems,
And matters of consequence that had matter were
Born into being by
A minor miracle.
But no hero or image conjured
By thoughts
Matters much.

What I imagine as a dense fog of little sorrow;
What I wonder is if stages by the sands reach in heaven,
The latter of which are much later
Than they were a few minutes ago.
Whatever goes into this is something like a serpent;
A deranged lunatic on rampage;
A sordid love affair with no sex;
The jurisprudence of the sane gunman;
Fortunes made of continual transaction;
Nothing means anything
Anything means nothing
Means nothing anything
Anything nothing means
The wolves have shed the wooly veneer;
Hopscotch lines painted on asphalt fade slowly;
Garbage rattles;
It does
But what has the world world come to?
What are we to do but live with each other?


One Comment on “Tomorrow Knows Something(s) about Never”

  1. Ryan Purcell says:

    “…anything nothing means” I like how you arrange these three words in different combinations that yield different meanings. Hurray indeed. I also like sounds and colors of the at the end of that section–asphalt, garbage, the gray-ness of wolves’ wool that might be floating in the air feather-like since it was shed. I think of cold November.

    We were discussing theory one night in a tavern and you came to the conclusion that none of it means anything, except insofar as it affects others; what matters, you said, is how we treat each other. These lines bring to mind that memory.

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