[A poem written spontaneously on a local computer bulletin board]
 

The little things are even shrinking now.  The dark aura of clouded life
Becomes a humdrum of drone and clatter.
Stability shatters in the growing tide that shelters & drowns in the same dark wave.

What is the purpose of existence the professor asked.
The cleric asked.
The philosopher asked.
I asked.

Is it to keep the hive alive in busy expectation?
Is it to kill and birth and die in endless repetition?
Is it a cosmic plan we follow and never understand
Even after death?
Is it a dark chaotic dance filled with grace and falling
A staccato stop and start of blind men in caves without maps?

Give me the damn map.  I don't understand these meanderings
That send me here and there with dry authority.
I scream against the clock that beats out of rhythm with my heart
The beep of the computer that demands immediate response
The constipated face of the businessman that looks askance at the dancer of dreams
 I am.

Are we trapped rats of survival in psychologists' mazes
Seeking the ultimate cheese
A silly species of sword & sex
Or are we quiet gods that spin webs around the traps
We fear will swallow us
And spit us out
So much fodder for the grand machine?
 

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