soul is a word in me vulnerable.
i think the soul is that which seeks
not to be pinned down.
it is blasé moments that get to me—
where her denial
of his sincerity
becomes a sleight against their spirit.
the soul lives
precisely because
it isn't the kind of thing
that exists.
it is the kind of thing
continually searching
for its own existence
so that it can remain
uncontained by its images
like whatever makes
the tao the tao
and makes my soul leap,
"that's like me!"
ultimate truths
at the outer reaches
of word.
the limitations of my language
as damning to my ego
as Gödel's incompleteness theorem is
to the Mission.
any images that we identify with
are just images
and while i am not one to dismiss the utility of an ego
its utility does not serve the purpose of the soul
in its evasion of objectification
in its self-preservation
of its non-existence
in its promise of eventuality
but no sooner than.
the queerness in me
feels kinship in purpose
with that singular task
of preserving its freedom
from the confines of
an explanation.
it is that pursuit alone
which makes the soul
real and imaginary
in its self-circling.
