Motherhood and flying are the same;

they are impossible,

yet we achieve them just the same.

My sister had a daughter,

and in my sister’s eyes I find the same

psychotic fatigue mental patients feel

pounding their heads repeatedly into the same

spot in the wall. And it’s not her daughter’s fault.

The child is two and enslaved by the same

addiction to impulsive action that even I feel at twenty-seven,

knowing the disaster of More, and taking it just the same.

What daughter doesn’t know yet is the ceaselessness of same on same,

of tomorrow just the same as the day after, and samer

even than the day that came before, and that all the minds

in human history have felt the same

and just the same

they’ve not found a way out of it.

Written at 10:32 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.

Samer is not a word. Neither is ceaselessness. They both ought to be. 

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