Sunday, September 25, 2011

us

If, in the end,
we are really one,
then my poor, solitary Cogito
will be plenty pissed.

My independent individual,
rugged though she is,
will have sung this song of herself
so loud and so long -
and, for what? For whom?

I suppose what I'm saying to you,
without rhythm or rhyme,
is that your godawful giddy
commune theories
are messing with my happiness.

And that, you blobhorde,
is the ultimate transgression.
You, that convenient collective pronoun,
will pay
me.

Unless, of course,
if, in the end,
we are really one.
Then, it just won't matter
one bit.

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