or, Shanghaied
How the mundane transmutes into the mantic
and the familiar opens a portal
into the unknown time and time again.
The self is only met when lost and wandering,
confused, the artifice stripped away.
Then there is no alias. The mirror does not lie,
even in its own duplicity.
The objectification of the subjective; the I and I
(and I and I and I. . .)
Disorienting to chase the center of the system
as it appears to go wester and wester
(ironically towards the east).
And so is common sense shanghaied once again,
awakens far out to sea, the horizon
unassailable.
The mind unfurled; the whore’s lassitude
stays the journey,
For nothing to be said surely finds one
as good as rudderless, afloat and aflounder,
the monotony an end in itself;
And so have sailors, since first sail set,
entertained themselves, cast the bones
and learned their lot —
Too late.
poetastrophy 