Making Sense

That sound, it drips so slowly down my chin.
The notes of crisp refreshment fall off
The flesh like juice from the very same fruit.
Such pristeen freshness... and it dangles,
It holds,
Steady over the skin
Upon the fat, above the flesh and outside the circulation;
Falling, as it should, to the ground.

Drip,
Drip,
Drip
Like that venom within the snake's bite;
In the digestive saliva of the fly;
The agonizing paralysis of the spider bite.
Those sounds empty to the ground.

As it rings inside the vision
The spiraling sensation of the nature
Trees standing shadow
Attending a brilliant quickening
The sunshine pouring
Into the veins of plants and animals
Alike they share the share the power;
Sharing the sound

And the fury,
The angry side of man,
Attacking the vessels of his own livlihood;
The bark spread across baren land,
The upset view of a vista felled
A man's own ideal deserted in his own blow -
The ax leveling the playing field,
An ironic vision against the tolling bell of time.

What is that fine scent
That delectible flavor flowing from tongue and nostril -
Sensational little orifices exulting in powerful symbols,
The ringing percussion of a parade gone mad,
Roses and fresh popcorn,
Bubblegum and queens,
Marshalls and hot dogs,
Success and victory.

Or defeat...is that the ashen muck
Festering in the depths of the olifactory,
Where the angry stench of God's combustion burns
The cells to their malignant conclusion,
Where that sad state of death is
The embers smoldering to char,
Where the carbon is so useless
That the organism loses any value?

Of course, to inhale the scene is to taste,
To quench the thirst of the most fruity inkling -
The luscious peach surrounding the pit -
The protein inside the cherry;
A reason
To nurture and to love, to hold, to care,
To raise in the image,
To a life, to lead, to love.

Still, the feeling is so fleeting so often.
It tastes like the bitter pill
From the daily morning regiment,
The people's own lubricant and the earth's own oils -
Potions from the back of the cart.
In the laudanums of such sensual release;
Tasting a falsehood that is so sallow,
An emptiness; venturing into the taste of nothingness.

So I feel: what questions can we ask in the absence of sense?
That potential energy is reduced to kinetic exhaustion -
The ironic impulse of all energy.
What we tactually grasp is the inevitability of irony?
In the regression of infinite math equations;
At the end of a zillionth calculation
That pie might reach infinity...
That is something I can feel?... Thinking I can touch uncertainty

When I grasp for a lack of understanding
I understand what you feel... what I feel -
Generically the same feeling - that we build to an end to build again.
Where everything at rest is at the precipiece of motion;
This continues forever?
Who understands that feeling!?!
That we do not understand our feelings,
Maybe that is what I feel.