Mathematics

I am walking around in the darkness
up some kind of 90 degree angle.
the math sounds impossible,

but that is just what makes it possible--

in a place like this.

I like to say that my face has character,
"it is well-traveled," I believe I have written
in some other attempt to avoid acknowledging
that I am beaten-down and torn.

(it is the discarded furniture that the euphemistic
qualify as having "charm")--even charm will
age beyond. the reach of euphemism--

so, I buy these labels and
picture boxes and
tiny, round glass jars.

to catalog proof of my humanity:

I tend to claw and ravage
like a starving animal.

something primitive still ticks. and. tocks
in the darkness waiting to be filled among--
the neurons and
synapses--

where mystery jumps the gaps: you will feel me
with your microscope and tweezers

I am only matter
collecting in your beaker,

vapor rising from
your Bunsen burner.

but the light you poke into the darkness
cannot find its home here.
because the math. here. is impossible--

the absurd and uncooperative angles. inspire
alone the simple--

who cannot be deceived
by the trickery of the
inflated and the greedy calculations of the
man who loves to think we can conquer

everything.

I will keep living among the impossible
where my face will continue to gather-- character.

and perhaps, one day, I will no longer
require proof of my humanity--

I will lose my labels and
picture boxes. and
tiny, round glass jars.

I will find no darkness. no gaps.

I will find the eternity of

the simple.