The End Of It Poem by Stan Rodriguez

Digging all my life, exploring through creation
for some explanation of which I have yet to fathom

as the world grows still each time I take a thought working it in my own mind's eye and then letting go exchanging it for something else.

Wondering where I'm at any given time while standing on my head or upside down—round and under where just seconds before
the thought began.

Wanting to rest quietly, beneath the moon
of some other world's Jupiter, where men can breathe and copulate
without fear of some infectious conclusion.

And thoughts keep coming as if today were the last of days
and I can't hold the angle straight or still
being bombarded on life's tightrope by a force unknown to me.

And I keep thinking the where and when of it,
not knowing it or where it is and when to find it

Swimming, in a veil of make-believe no one has yet to figure out, seeing all there is to see and understanding little.

I keep moving, again and again, digging-exploring all that I can
on a journey intended for me alone to travel

Moving ever moving to the conclusion—somewhere, within the death of it, the end of it.