What is real?

A sublime portion of nature,

not yet reified,

put on a shelf,

as though it were a thing.

It’s a philosophic question:

Does the world itself carry its own meaning?

Look at laws as objective necessities,

as economists do,

and make them real.

They’re nothing,

a joke,

to entertain our minds.

No pretense to greater wisdom is made here;

whether time is a fourth dimension of the universe

or a reified abstraction,

whether it is continuous or atomistic.

The writer is but a typist,

the broker of the word,

peopling the darkness,

alienating society,

analyzing the gaze,

and demonstrating the power

of symbolic movements.