If the universe is like me, no wonder. No wonder whatsoever
this place is such a mess. Try to tell heart cells
what the lungs are blown up to. Ask the liver
how it feels about its job in waste management.
Tell on your skeleton to all the soft senseless pink frosting.
Take the cake. Dump it in the milky substance of your consciousness.
Make it soggy. Like the rest of your body.
Destined to be parted by a blunt spoon and swallowed unchewed
by the great toothless mouth of our universe. Slurping like breakfast cereal.
The big bang hit like a mid-morning sixth cup of coffee beer shit.
Self-expression. Wipe it away. Flush it down.
Forget it drowned in the bowl no one eats from.
It is all perfect. This is all entirely correct. The small-
ness. The triviality. Sheer, daunting, cliffscape minute-
ness. It is of vital importance. In every pursuit except excuse.
Or alleviation. From the one inarguable commandment of life.
Let us start at the beginning. At the heart.
Each tiny minuscule cell beats. Contracts.
No heart is squeezed, or pressed, or gripped into action.
Just broken into a trillion seamless pieces
All showed up to orchestra rehearsal on time
Ready to start.
No matter the proportion.
All life is collaboration.
And the further we stare exclusively outward
The smaller, less consequential, more unimportant
Because there is no universe to know outside of us.
Everything we are meant to know can not be avoided.
You are Atlas.
The boon of self awareness.
The realization that you are currently highly covetable real estate in the universe.
You’re third violin in a symphony of millions.
There isn’t one cell in a sea of heart.
You are the heart.
A heart cell.
To declare the answers to those questions are and have always been within.
And the only way to claim ignorance against them is to ask them out loud to the world.
And never whisper them alone under your breath.
If you ever so desired to learn if there was a secret purpose to life
Why should you need to ask anyone else other than yourself?