The impossible is of no interest whatsoever.
The inaccessible is irresistible.

An acknowledgment of perpetual transience
leads to the development of ecstatogenic techniques,

aspiration to deprivation
abandoned for blessings of the yes-yes.

What to say to the literalist
for whom abstractions lack edges to grasp,

who prefers the limits of banal concretions
because he can count the feathers,

because the sensation of stubbing his toe allows
him to pretend a conception of his forgotten origins,

because he relishes the comforts of recognition
rather than the challenges of examining patterns?

Truth is imprisoned in a prism, fractalicious,
with facets on facets, shattered into being

with the relentless eroticism of ice
cracking rock.

The merely accommodating is much too small.