The Gazing Man has doubt
if the Gazing Man stands in the
meadow
toreador pose; sports a Stetson hat
stylish knickerbockers, spats,
and waistcoat
as if to flaunt a caricature of current
couture
if the Gazing Man is a kind of post-hipster
buckwheat boy or steam punk extraordinary
presence
in a degraded meadow seven times dug
and graded
those pinnacles of academia push
him onward
if the Gazing Man, eye dripping, remembers
Mother
unable to voice his abjectness as
he represses a shriek
while irritating noisome silence
radiates around
in crescendos layered in waves of
cosmic indifference
if the Gazing Man in cantankerous
spleen erupts nastily
damning all episodes of all time
when Earth began
and watches a confusion of
feeling and brute antagonism
spiral outward and open like a
beastly plant before him
if the Gazing Man does or doesn’t
gaze upon all and laugh
then the Gazing Man is surely
lost, adrift in the elements
and squandered like a thin dime
on a blank newspaper
just when his legacy seems to
have ceased to dwindle
if the Gazing Man struggles to
stand upright in Olduvai
and falls on his face in Ur,
stumbles forward in Chicago
his patchwork midden a podium for
upright eloquence
- he discards all - his thinking
to date boils off, upward
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