Another weekend, another million dollars,
Another million words, another series of minute actions.
I’m poor again, with a thousand dollars.
I left my soul in the car, but it’s made its way back to me before
So I’ve got sweet nothing to worry about.
A movie, a book, a photo;
The rain fell, made sounds as it did so
And then dissolved into the earth (or went back up).
Here is another Saturday, then another Sunday:
I feel less fulfilled than the last
And the one before that too.
Family’s still there, friends still there;
Job, still there.
Regulated behaviour, also still there.
Droopy eyes on a sullen night
But it’s Friday, not quite the weekend;
But it’s Friday, it presages the weekend.
Time, still there (as abstract as it might be).
Awareness of scheduled life, still there.
Fight off stomach pains early Saturday morning (still there);
Stare at walls when emotionally induced immobility kicks in (also still there);
Walk aimlessly and think of evil things,
Evil things that might help.
Another weekend: still there.
The agonizing derivative of a dead or dying culture;
Of a loss of contact with the unknown
—the Dead Mistress of archaic times
(O, sweet maiden, how we miss you so...).
We have a dead pre-history;
But not in a temporal way.
It is a lost influence, with many answers;
It is a loss of consciousness
Which we have failed to detect
—even with our sonar pulses.
This is not subjectable to new technology.
It is not as though one can actually see God.
At a loss, we adhere to whatever is given,
To anything that is made to exist for us;
But below the surface level, She lies sleeping
—but not dead.
Sweet Mistress, let me feel your gentle palm,
Resting between my eyes.
Let me absorb what it is that you have given,
But what Human has failed to take.
Contemplation: another weekend.