Rambling Thoughts At 2: 47 P.M. Poem by RIC BASTASA

when we follow the webs of thought (imagining a spider spinning its own

saliva to build a trap, a house, a work of art clinging like fingers of

silk in space,) when we follow the streams of ideas that we create,
and we do not really have anything in mind, perhaps

we see black spiders floating in the morning sea of space, and then
we keep on expanding and spending time,

i tell you, perhaps, there is a sting of a bee, that we want to ignore,

and the pain is just a word, that we type and set aside for a while as
a meaningless mark,

we have no purpose, we are trying to empty a load of thoughts not to explain it

but to eradicate ourselves from a complication of doubts,
but how can we? the words keep coming like we are shores and they are
waves,

we want to expel something, and we follow a trail of irrelevance,
a bush of irrationality, there are colors and shades of colors, and

you ask, ' what colors? ' oh, these are colors of coldness
bluish, sky like, and if you ask, only the ball of thorns inside the heart

has the ability to give a complete answer.