All human thought is hypnopompic.
Even minds Olympic
have barely woken
before they retire, broken.
Always question patternity,
probe shape, estimate extent:
content isolated from context
is a model of limited if crucial utility.
If you want to throw it out,
you have to replace it
with something better—or at least
else—
and
nothing doesn't work.
Unknown (or forgotten) systems seem random,
subject to a dismissive inquiry;
time is everywhen but now,
contending with immiscible identities;
but without confusion there is no nuance,
though many would make much of
a Gaussian distribution
of sounds of sincerity or sex,
would say that walking out barefooted
after hints of
baraka,
you can examine your urges
or indulge them: rarely both.
All poems are written and copyrighted by M. C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.