blank paper.

The cross around his neck jingles as he walks

The treasures he possesses ran the savages right out of town,

A cavern appears where a mountain was, or where it should've been

And a man sits at the mouth, tearing blank paper, and playing with the cuffs of his sleeves

The sun goes down and the trees stop rustling

The lake stops rippling and the air sits and waits for me to break it

My cadences perform as patterns for the mind

Giving repetition the foreground as outliers dance forgotten, seven feet behind

Sometimes I forget myself, and think novelties like "nothing is not a word"

Then stare at a photograph and realize I'm just being absurd again

Another absurd white boy, folding blank paper into airplanes

While Japanese boys fold the same thing into origami northern snow cranes

And I start to think again about the boundaries of every mystery

Then thank God I'm not selling oranges on the medians,

And I lose all of my reasons for contemplating history.

Newton was wrong, you see, I make something out of nothing every day

I just forget where my something came from

When explanations vanish, all results are inevitable

Socioculturalpsychological amnesia, a blessing with a crown

Every jewel on the planet, as far as I know anyway, implanted on it

And now, I'm just tired, you know?

Nothing is not a word.

 I just don't want to talk about it anymore.

. .