an unfurling

There is a strange
buzzing in
the back of
my head.
For a good part
of every day
it zips around
back there
and inaudibly
screeches
in private
dog-frequencies.

I feel
nothing
for explanation.
Which is why
I am not surprised
at the stares
and oddities,
gestures,
given to me
as I run to the bathroom
suddenly
leaving punch-
lines suspended
overhead.

They will fall
hard
once I leave.

How
unfortunate
for them,
but I
believe
in something:
In a means-to-an-end.

Whatever means
to whatever end.
Here, I notice
certain freedoms.

Yes,
that’s it.
Anarchy
is not freedom.
Marxism
certainly
is not.
Nor is democracy.
Because there is,
in the first place,
no confinement;
thus,
no escape.

But they insist
that I am wrong
and remain
sitting around
the sticky
coffee table,
talking
on and on
about nothing
and prodding
the glass
with amazingly
opposable
thumbs.

Never going anywhere
unless
circles
are somewhere.

This is why;
I have to leave:
over-exposure
to people:
faceless,
crying,
pointing,
vomiting,
ass-backwards,
and intrusive
people.

Flung into life
without any warning
to any of us—
ass-backwards,
vomiting
crying
since their very
first breath.

How am I supposed
to take that kind
of shit
seriously?

To make sense
of the various quirks
of others
is a task better left
to something
natural.
Like diffusion.

Why can’t everything
be more
like that?
Why can’t it
eventually
osmose
to someplace
far, far away
from me?

It is so automatic
and so dependable.
It is something
ingrained.
If only it was
omnipresent.

What a thought.
My thought.

I should name it:

[nothingfromsomething]

What a pretty name.