I am waiting
for a show
that will give me no answers
only ideas,
but what comes with
ideas?
Perspective,
new soul,
satire of the ex
soul,
ex self,
self,
not self,
know the self,
to remove the self?
Does this make sense?
Do humans look for
philosophy by nature?
Is it pertinent to
the human condition?
Some say philosophy
is dead,
well science is a
philosophy.
So take thy nature
and shut up,
fuck off,
to always put on a
show, to always
dictate some kind of self
to be bon self
to be self again,
my words are trivial,
but to me therapy,
to some nothing,
to me everything,
there is only one thing
to seek,
No,
I am wrong,
There is a one,
we are all
and 1.
Balance,
something we all
forget,
we all forsake
find,
and forsake
again, this is
word,
This is thought,
This is action,
This is balance,
This is redemption
but only by self
until a profit is made.
To be charity
is to be selfish?
Damn Wall Street!
Damn capital logic!
It bares no question,
No questions
means no self,
no self means
slavery.
No more slavery,
no more of this torture,
external,
internal,
nor in between,
no more of this,
my body seeks out,
but my self, idea,
it only seeks in,
and not,
ah paradox,
you are my only
friend,
my only reprise,
redemption,
self,
idea,
and etc.
I only try,
at least I did,
it is now about
action.
Pitiful words,
intrigue, interlude,
It is no embarrassment,
to hell with
the self indulgence
of self hatred,
it bares no truth.
The clock strikes the hour I dread,
Anthems I try
to forget ring
again,
I only ring out
of boredom,
Another forgotten
anthem,
Sure, shedding of self,
superimposed,
self withdrawn,
ideal, or deal,
revealed,
ended, static,
consistent thoughts
aren’t crazy or
inconsistent if
it’s a poem,
The world shows
its true self
soon,
it ticks on,
the night marker
is barren,
but holy,
prepare yourself for
what the night
brings,
and what it doesn’t,
no more rage,
it is a waste,
I am not who bore
my fruit and seed,
I am me,
but I am.
The introvert extrovert,
if such a thing exists,
I am that,
I am this living paradox,
I am, I always
have been, and I should have
known,
should have known there
is always an unknown,
So eager to finish,
yet always so sad,
so weary, so full
of hindsight,
so full of withdraw,
I will escape, the
times withdrawn,
post-haste, and
evil exist
again.
Relativity does not
mean no existence,
The most refined of orders,
yet slovenly all the
same, retributed
return,
Its time to bare minimal
knowledge,
And minimal knowledge
in minimal space, in
little reality, no
more self, and a
Moved self.
What is responsibilities reward?
Is such cramped space
worth any reward?
Any fruit? Any marker?
To know people care,
To know one matters,
To know self, and
be so lucky.
Is it luck, or knowledge,
to know luck itself?
Another mark of
drunk and foreign
wisdom,
of trivial matters
he is right,
sitting around
brings no fruits,
I should thank this
drunk
for his wisdom,
I would gladly escape
my midnight hours,
to a place of drunk
paradise.
No more turning heads
just for the sake of it,
no more self,
but only my self, I only
bare truth, but be late
for required fault,
and fall,
I will make the most of
my final hours,
I will tell her all
and so will she,
for those whose terms
and labels are mixed
or do not exist,
you are due justice,
you are due truth,
It is not justice,
nor truth to be
forsaken or
forgone,
I am here because
of choice,
I will always be here
because of choice,
I am only here for
that,
I am tired of being
selfish, I am tired of
the selfish, the hours
pages, and ink all run
thin, I must make
these hours count,
even if they are for nothing,
The narcotic influence,
the people, the atmosphere,
why is this what drives
me? Why does this
inspire me? Is not
what I endure an
inspiration? But why?
because it is yourself,
it is history, it is
truth,
it is a self,
it is my self. And
I love this self.
This self has purpose,
This self, has meaning,
gives meaning, and even
escapes meaning.
I am here only as my
witness, only ever as
witness, but no, because
you witness my word
and wind with deliverance
not nor ever due
others.
The pages and ink grow
thinner, with each
page, and ink I leave
a self, a page, an
hour a mark a minute
a self a way a word
a deed or act and
action.
This is my gift,
for you and for self.
It comes to its close,
Its due, its hour,
Its mark, its fun,
Its word, its deed.
My work, my due, my deed,
my word, my self.
The clock strikes midnight,
It has come due.
The ending,
The filler, the word,
the deed, I am only
as fortunate and strong as
my word, self, and page,
this is my story’s answer,
This is the story’s answer,
I am not your contemporary,
I am your witness,
but I am both.
I am my own story’s answer,
for all I am, is my self.
2/15/13 – 9/7/13
James J Jackson 