Who would have thought it?

who would have thought it?

. . . and out the window I hear fragmented voices, choppy
and disjointed like schizophrenic thoughts.
For just a moment they are here and in a moment they are silent.

Are the voices truer than the silence or the silence truer than the voices?

The moonlight tricks you into believing that you can see what is going on out there.
And if believing is seeing, what is blindness?
Blinking out the cold electric streetlights that line the road
and that moon defining what is earth and what is sky
is like my breath extinguishing the candle’s flame.

Hot, humid, tight room.
I would pace this narrow place except for the clutter of living,
an entropy of intentions tangled with clothing and meals shuffled among books.
Its like a deck of cards thrown into the air. What hand is dealt?
Nothing to see but that the walls are white, so I look into the night.

Been a lot of rooms.
This one is in such a different place.
But I laugh. What else can I do?
Its the same old room.
They are all the same old room.

Who would have thought it?
Its funny to think. Literally. To think is funny.
Meaning arises in jumbled words like coincidences juxataposed, layered
in the ernest crackpot’s contemplation of both profound and mundane conspiracy.
Old man,
he huddles with popes and professors and they point out patterns in the stars.
But if I met this scholar, thinker, learned man
I would have to ask.
I would have to ask,
“Are the voices truer than the silence or the silence truer than the voices?”

Its like a deck of cards strewn across the floor. What hand is dealt?

I would like to say things straight and channel words into some ordered flow,
but then I don’t think they would mean what I think.
Who would have thought it?


“Who would have thought it? by Robert Mahaney” by Robert Mahaney is licensed under a Creative Commons License

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