Inferno

Once upon a time we knew

What we knew,

And what we didn’t.

But that is long since hidden,
Bidden fly away and hide
Inside our vain certitude
That our age is one of beatitude.
The attitude is one of extreme
Academic schizophrenia, we seem
So certain we know, and dream
All that is worth
Knowing on earth
Or dreaming.
Meanwhile scheming
To convince ourselves from our youth
That the truth
Is unknowable.
Un-showable.
And consequently, why bother
The reverend Father
With disturbances of his reverie
His litany,
If it makes him happy
Then leave him to his delusions
So long as his certainty does not threaten our confusion.

We are not especially interested in why.

Sure, have a try,
At thinking about meaning,
And dreaming
Of reasons
And seasons,
And some fictitious “Plan,”
But Man, I’ll let you have “Why”
And I will learn of “How.”
That’s the real thing, now
These days, knowing
Not where we’re going
But how to get there faster.
You see, the clock is my master,
Or not really the clock, but my own fear of hereafter.
To rest would be a disaster.

Did I mention
My latest invention!
I put a jet engine
In a car with no map. My intention
Is simple, to race around
And around,
And around,
And around this giant, blue/green hamster wheel.
The real cannot be reached
The barrier cannot be breached.
So I will race without a destination
Not a vacation.
Not a variation.
A vacancy.
Vacuous virtuosity
Curiosity is dead
Instead my mind unravels
To travel from the here of my birth
To nowhere. What mirth?
What youth?
What truth?
What good are questions to one who doesn’t believe in answers?
What good is a ballroom, if you are afraid of other dancers?
 
You see, we used to tread our bawdy measures
In search of pleasures,
Trading treasures, gold for silver
Silver for copper,
Copper for clay,
Clay for dung,
And even dung is too rich
Too alive,
Too fecund.
Sterility, that’s the thing.
A rock feels no sting,
Our fling with vices
Showed us nothing suffices
Except Everything!
We struggled to achieve
Happiness, but conceived only pain
And again, ceased to believe
In things.
When you have finally clawed your way to the bottom
It is easy to mock the heaving orgy of Sodom
From the finality,
The banalit,
The silent streets of Gomorrah,
Having sold all tomorrows
And bartered all sorrows
And pains,
And gains above
And loves,
And joys,
And toys,
And trash,
And even ash
For nothing,
And no one.


I wrote this poem a few days ago, and when I finished it, it scared the heck out of me.