The wild and awful pursuit of an indefinite
Object had taken hold of his mind. His many
Minds were of two minds. Or, rather, his words
Of many minds, not his, were of two minds,
To speak for him or to speak for themselves.
Odysseus Leopold Melmoth, Odie L. Moth,
Bodhi El Ghost, was a moldy nobody at most.
It would have had to have been a very small pond,
A mud puddle, maybe, for this body to have been
A big fish in it. But the words in it, they had been
Words in every pond, in every oceanic mind,
Words everywhere. Were they servants, now,
Tenants of a more humble holding than heretofore?
Had they left the liveried life of palaces for this?
Some said no, but some said yes. The wandering,
In the event, was both all theirs and all his.
The wandering that was so entirely, similarly,
At every step lost, indifferently different, that is.
No comments:
Post a Comment