In the infidelity of what it is to be, “the savior
Gets mixed up with the traitor, but the traitor
Stays as true to himself as a god.” Truer,
Actually. There have been suggestions
That all is illusion, and then those suggesting
As much offer truth. Which is illusion. Watch.
You can’t possibly be certain that this is
Or is not, in whole or in part, an illusion. You
Can’t be certain you can’t be certain. All
The mirrors of logic go dark if no ray of light
Can slip in from outside of the funhouse. I,
Who am not I, never have been, believe it
Unlikely that the funhouse of logic matters,
Means anything, but saying so is something
Like turning on the last hanging bulb before
It burns out and goes dark. How wondrous
All the copies of ourselves we see receding
Away from the reflecting pronouns of us,
Of you, of we, of me. I’m only nearly certain
Of one thing, once everything goes dim
Again. Every savior, every traitor, every good
And awful being began with meaning. We
Did not exist, but if we did not exist, we
Would have had to have invented us. We did.
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