Microhumanities, the small connective moments we are
Using for the bridging of gaps, albeit only
Some phatics, some select collecting of ideas
Being in love should never be plastic, at least
Never on the outside: microhumanities are too natural
By my reckoning, transcendence is not that important
Just a pretty academic word for ugly academic papers
Yet it applies to many very basic parts of life
Basic enough to catch my eye and intrigue
Therefore I write of and on the subject as I please
Always ekphrastic with regards to imaginary art, I
Add the appropriately describable to my real art
We throw around incomprehensibility often, yet it's still
An idea, an irony for us to never decode slacking
So purposefully and so perfectly, meditating on nothings
Lovelinesses jump past with abandon all stressed out
By the gnarls and idiosyncrasies of twisted mankind
Tied together nonetheless by the kindness of our actions
Up recorded etched and thought of in the stars
Wondering as to the provenance of the idea of God
Who has owned it over all these dark myriad years
I think God's unknowable, we may parse yet shall not know
The intricacies shall remain issues of theology, yes
And to all theologists I say never, ever stop
Four or two or three, any number beyond or between
Trinity, personally I think that God probably forms a
Thirteen, but I'll never know so you ought to tell me.
Thanks.
As I enter a nighttime building with softened heavy steps
Reflecting from the walls and off the ceilings and floors
I see my prior-complemented skirt billow beneath me, the
Prior complements echoed in my gait and improving my posture
Never truly horrible, but hitherto a slouch in the
Incandescent lighting surrounding, as I vomit up
Thoughts onto page, not reswallowing my regurgitations as was
Custom for me for all those years when I would ruminate and
Suffer pica of the idea, tossing about in the mind on
Unsoothed seas of unfair aequor-thought wondering if I
Could read and write epic poems, which has indeed come to
Pass, and I speak with the fellow spirits in my Latin
Class wondering if they see me as anything more than a
Purveyor, a purveyor experienced in less-than-myriad ways
Of microhumanities, and I stay here thinking I cannot
Find the magic in life, yet I bend surreality to help myself
Think I'm a little saner than I really am, always making
Ends meet with a little touch of what I now like to call
Microhumanities, my little thoughts said aloud 'bout which
No one cares and no one seems to truly give a damn
Vapors in my awestruck eyes as I gaze upon the subject all
Conceal my passions and paw at my curiosity, catlike and
No longer contained by a similar made-up idea I once called
Microtheatricality, what I described as the cracks
The cracks underlying theater and low-budget media
VHS tapes you turned in and never ever saw again in your
Lifetime, watching terrible sensationalist movies on a
Channel called Lifetime, an experience I never shared in
Yet have heard plenty about over these many years and
Wish I could understand yet I do not know anything now but
Microhumanities, how those things keep me going
Thanks.