For Virginia Wolfe

Of what use is all this knowledge

profusion of theories

concurrent planes of reality

what use is all this bounty what expansive

form to fill and

pride and

purpose to defend

what vast void whose edges to define, must be defined

and dimmed hopes to re-ignite, and

dreams to pump full of shape and noise and noise and noise

thoughts heavy and pendulous

leaden globes

suspended in viscous timeless galaxies

too much matter

detritus of reason, reason’s inevitable debris

undeterminable truths

layer upon layer of truths

not enough silence

or silent space

not enough of that elusive grace

too much cause and effect as fragile and thin as Saturn’s rings-

of what use is all this knowledge if

severed from the heart

thoughts spinning on self axis

heavy molten globes

doomed to collision

fractured consciousness

inevitable madness

all this knowledge

this wondering and worrying at the boundaries of fiction

at the thin thin threads that bind us each to our own orbit

knowing that they too are a thin fiction.

what is the use of all this knowledge

if all trajectories lead to irreparable despair

to stones in the pocket