The Death of Finality

ideas,
bubbles in the universe
swinging
on bus stops
in paperbacks, on
desks carved in heart-strings.

foucault had them,
as did aristotle and atwood. beauvoir blew
voice into the swift, catapulting
balloons of shifty
ones.

platonic ideas--floating above us?
like air-circuitry; a network
of flying
knowledge?
kantian dreams; morrison bleeding
with heroin
and bukowski sewing
stories out of
dismissal slips and empty, shivering
wine bottles.

in understanding we are lost,
in finality,
stranded in doubt.
in the unconnected, vibrant waiting, in the
not-yet and the not-to-be
in the never-was and
never-will
we are the always-here.
always waiting, catching circles of thought--idly and
ideally--in our palms like
unfinished, string-thin dreams.