To Swallow a Whale

To read Nietzsche’s overpowering arguments
under the towering trees of a forest,
to ponder
being and non-being
under the starlit night.

To recite Bukowski
in the pink haze of a smoke-filled room,
as he bares our dirty desires,
our filthy excesses,
and other vulgarities of life.
 
To witness Frida’s tropical flourish
in a seaside town
as she toys with animalistic symbols,
inner conflict, defiance,
and the lost art of introspection.
 
To be awed by Zimmer’s magnificence
in the trenches of life’s battles,
to transcend
the utter powerlessness of existence
and the dread of infinity.
 
To peek at Giger’s otherworldly demons
in the dingy slums of an apocalyptic world,
to witness the crumbling of faith
and the slow demise
of the old gods and new.  
 
To stare deeply into the void of the heart,
the palpable nothingness stares back at you,
to live one day at a time,
to lose a thread of yourself
one day at a time.

To stare deeply at whatever remains --
a dark unswallowable lump
more fluid than Van Gogh,
more dense than Joyce,
more unsettling than Munch,
more absurd than Duchamp,
more rebellious than Banksy.