I am weary of my heart – it continually beats

without asking me.

I am weary of the color of the rose,

it is inscrutably and boringly red,

red in the morning and red at night,

and I am weary of its color,

as I am weary of what I do to muster

my exclamations of wonder

when I see it,

or when I awake and discover I am alive

and my heart it still beating.

I must think about the concept

of being weary of things, yet,

I get weary of that, too.

The brain circles the wagons of warfare,

what consists of fighting the Indians

of blunt conceptual obesity,

and seeing defeat at every step

and yet continuing to fight.

I am weary of fighting.

I want to drift out to sea,

a calm sea that reflects the stars,

a sea that tells me in gentle terms

that I came from its bosom

and its beneficence and holds me close

and takes me to a death that has no questions

about the beating of hearts

and the color of roses.

But there is no righteous answer from the sea

or from the rose or from by dreams,

and I am left floating, without death,

caught between life and non-life

on a knife-edge of uncertainty

and the history of minds

does me no good.

There is a certain rhythm I feel.

A rhythm like placing my glass

perfectly on the table, or like

seeing light from a neighbor’s window,

and enjoying its mystery,

or hearing the sound of a distant train,

a rhythm that has no “meaning” and yet

troubles the blood like some threat of death.

It is that rhythm that I seek to find

on my drum-beat, and seek to hold it

and take it to sleep, and take it to wake up.

But I am weary of this seeking…..

I am not inclined to claim that this weariness

comes from age, and the manifold trappings

that age supposedly endows -- that is,

of some souring ennui, some backing into

a cave of dark surrender to death. It is not

that kind of weariness – but rather one

thought out by traveling my personal road

and passing the sign-posts that signal

my several beliefs as being either reasonable

or not, and in that fencing match of one truth

against another, I find that I am pinned

against a wall of words, and in those words,

falling like hailstones in a strong wind,

I cannot but cower and crouch, and hold my head

in my hands and offer my devoutly secular prayer

that I may come out at the end of my small tunnel

unscathed by the storm, and smiling

at the absurdity of my life, and yet

pleased at the times I spent

ignoring this fact.