Bamboozled by some claims
of post-modernism, where doubt
seeps in under every doorway.
We take nothing for granted,
no knowledge is truth,
simplicity is mired in complexity,
the complex oh so simple.
The residence of the I is many,
in here, out there, in between,
multiple selves, true self, false self,
one world, no self.
Illusions, fantasies, defenses.
Us and them, I and thou, me and you,
My seeing is partial
My knowing is momentary
My holding on is tenuous
as each truth gradually, slowly
succumbs to the next,
merging like earth and water
Existentialism, spiritualism, economics.
Therapy, religion, materialism.
Poetry, literature, family.
Love, intellect, presence.
The way is rocky, hazardous,
the air is murky and grey,
it is difficult to see beyond
where I am, beyond this obsession
with I, with its incessant demands for
coherence, consistency, certainty,
My stomach is nauseous
from throwing up its contents
I cannot digest
this choosing, or not, of one.