What’s the Point.

A Poem by CookeCody

This is it; this is the point.

It is what its name suggests:

A single thing, Infinitely singular,

And yet what smoke it is to grasp,

So difficult to hold down and agree upon.

we search for golden grains of sand

with eyes that require glasses for wisdom.

And therein lies a digression,

a cavern in that Allegorical Cave

not much wider than the slit of an eye.

Perhaps, the fracture suggests,

What you seek the most from your cave etchings, your Golden Calves, your Magna Cartas, your Mona Lisas and your Last Judgements (so early to jump to conclusions there), your pathetic subsequent attempts at expressing what you really want to say through artistic, political, and religious means, is neither in the shadows nor the flames, not in the purest precious metal, not in the most fair and articulately lenient of words, not in the lines that separate beauty from damnation. Where is the point if not where we mark it? I dare ask once again as a man who knows he exists on nothing more sizable than the dust on the tip of a pen, why in the name of anything worth a damn do I have to dance around the meaning of my words like some spiritual ritual, some superstitious repetition of gesture and poise? What is the point? I say it's here. A forgotten island (explicitly stated as being distanced from) continents of conflict and confusion.

and what does my dust mite dare to say

so far away from any light of acceptance?

It twinkles with the idea of tinkering

With the pedestal upon which we've

Essentially placed

God

And perhaps He meant

To drop us here in the corner of a crack in the wall,

not caring or knowing to care to give us a purpose;

So, point here if you believe with me that

>(there is a totally optional explanation to everything)<

if only

We dare to agree, yes, agree,

On that pointedly obvious fact

And then on any explanation we choose