Ideas are powerless mice
with the heart
of jelly-filled donuts.
Gooey, they stick
to the walls of the mind
like children cling
to the walls of a slide,
too scared to fall
low
through
the maze of synapses
they must leap across,
tunneling like horses,
tragically scarred
by the fraying logic
behind false fire alarms
and the wisdom devoid
from treadmill runs.
(Our mazes attempt to link work
with reward. While the amazing
universe unjust
laughs in her lab coat,
weighing a proton
as heavier than a thousand
electrons.)
Between
those leaps, we become lost
in our efforts to trace
the infinite gap
(there is no cross-
walk) from what we know
and what we are certain
is built on a substant
uncertainty.
Thus all our ideas
reach dead-ends,
when set
to explain how they
themselves came about,
but despite this defection of data,
they run
the wheel, until their tails slouch.
(And if that
were their last squeak, then
the data could be trimmed
and arrayed,
we’d write careful notes
on the side: Short-lived,
but cute
in their own little way.
But, no
like sobbing trick candles, they burn
out and have
the untactful gall
to return.)
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