The Story’s Answer Epilogue

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self withdrawn,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times withdrawn,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

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