But, If you truly have been reading this unending accumulation of tangents *** Which might appear boring and even shallow to you if you think I’m being pretentious, megalomaniac, lying, dishonest, (or worse: evil, egoist, & ill-intentioned), in brief if you think or feel that any of the above is true concerning the writer—Born Olivier dit “Pantoufle” at the feet of the Alps in the town of Albertville, France, on May 11th 1989 (thus having been conceived at some point in a clammy August summer, probably somewhere in Provence—and do not trust my self-proclaimed benevolence. *** You already know all of this and Inclusive Poetics has no secrets to you anymore. This poem’s ambition is to become a sacred book For virtually all profane and sedentary ages to come. (Please do not found religious institutions Upon the piece before you— Part of the statement is unironic, For my ego, at times, holds on to the false belief That it is immortal as the light of its day, Its heart-shaped sun, consciousness, Who never actually reminded my ego, until now, That futurity, by definition and by nature, Is equally a false belief, disguising itself as an evidence, logic, undisprovable Thing that sure feels like it is there, existing, That it should be existing, at least, or everything That’s sowed in the present would be for beans; *** “yes,” said consciousness to the rational ears of my ego, “you have understood me; it is not because it feels like it is or has to or should be there, that it is there, nor that it is logic, rational, or evident. You egoes, proud and “fiers” of yourselves, Do not see past your reason’s cubic eyes. Look…Listen, superego or hyper-id or whatever You call yourself these days, I will repeat slowly: Future has never existed. It is but a deathbed lullaby. Hear my song: Whatever in a field has sprout, Shall from the very same soil feed, And upon it bloom & drop its fruits.
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