Zettelstraum

History absent tradition puts

Competitors in enemy slots.

Wo es war, soll Ich werden,

They repeat. It’s not proof

 

We must have guile

As first philosophy, but it galls.

If the soul is my Captain

And my body its Craft

 

Who should I say sent me?

Who put me in the brig

To toss with Private Bilge?

Or maybe the soul pilots

 

A flimsy biplane, and I’m seed

Lavished over Cartesian fields.

Illinois is, after all,

Only visible from above.

 

A thought: there is only one dream,

The one where it’s nothing.

That one becomes all the others,

Which is the reason we sleep.