Being it that I’m not a being of pure mind
it’s not in my Being to be the being that always asks questions.
Being it that I’m not a being of pure doubt
it’s not in the Being of my being to regret my toes
and my soles and elbows and the knots in my fingers
but being it that I’m not a being of pure bone
I must desire sound and smell and the fleeting and
ghostly and sometimes feral (sometimes au contraire sedated)
experience of being one with bar crowd.
Still, being it that I’m not a being of pure sound
my ears and throat must be the vessel of something more
light-like and sexy like the gods of the Indian subcontinent
Yet, being it that my Being is not a being of pure sex,
it must be but the pretext to something else
like music or muscle ache or somesuch deranged pleasure.
Each alarming fact about the Being of my Being tells me something
about something: real, debased, willingly fallen.
The gods of my Being perverted sensualists;
the bones of my fingers feral and/or sedate
my elbows and soles filled with regrets
My mind filled with questions,
lost in clouds, shrouded by concepts
and theories without end.