The Existential Bicycle is writing.
A cavalcade of words along the beach
appears in wheely arcs and un-straight lines.
The beach contains a wealth of empty space,
he adds, fearing that writers’ block has struck.
He tries his hand at Automatic Writing:
Religion is a fascist accident,
started by fools, continued by dark devils,
and swallowed by the credulous and scared.
It’s too much like philosophy, he thinks,
or not enough like poetry. Or maybe,
he thinks again, it’s simply an opinion,
expressed in clumsy haste by someone angry:
neither philosophy nor poetry.
He stops his search for the profound, and turns
to look towards a neatly drawn horizon.
He falls asleep and dreams of words and words.
The whole world is poetry when he awakes,
and words are written by stars in the sky:
Look up towards the stars to find
a new perspective. Atoms form from starry
explosions. All the things we see – ourselves,
and everything around us – are not new,
but are re-shaped by chance on chance on chance.
Solid matter is space dressed up as substance.