I think of the soul

What are we unnamed consciousnesses? It is the pause of

performance, when we are finally alone? Shower, tearing beads 

of sweat off your cold body like dew or mind–expansion?

Is it the break of new ink on paper—new words, words a pip in 

our pessimistic continuum? Is it the frenzy of life, wide open in awesome 

joy, then shut with terror and sensuality? Whatever: I experience 

the eventual chasm of being wanted here. My “soul” here: crucial 

degree of poetry, after all the easy philosophies are gone. Keeping instantaneous—

maybe it’s this poem, pushed with grace from my belly

or an emotive observer, ripped from the messy beet-red.. 

The television says look here, don’t forget me, and I’m afraid 

this is all the gripping I will call my own. Look here, don’t look

away, look here, don’t forget me, don’t look away, don’t forget me, 

don’t forget me, don’t forget me, don’t forget me, don’t forg—