Limbo

I love the concept of a question. I have often asked myself a lot of questions. That is a silly statement – because we all ask ourselves questions. But I truly love the idea of a question, an inquiry, a search for more than is obvious at the time. I love the question, more than the answer.
But I love the answer too, the witty answer, the right answer, the wrong answer, the stupid one. I love them all. Why? Because they bring me questions. I love that question, - why? It is so…so sufficient.
Why? Why? Why?
A rose by any other name will smell just as sweet – but a rose is a rose is a rose.
So many questions.
I have often asked myself, who is this girl? What is this place? Where is this mind? Where is that soul? Who are all these people? There is also this question – of essence, of universality and diversity and equilibrium in this anatomical marvel –actually, not actually?. But still.
I ask about leadership – those people, these people, our people, their people, your people. Whose people? I love that question, even better, which people? Those by your window at night –listening. Those at the podium – speaking. Those at the table – judging. The leaders. I ask a lot about these people sometimes. Particularly at these times when I am inclined to inquire. I love the idea of a question. To question.
I question them. I question me.
They are those at the podium – not listening. In your bedroom – not speaking. In your face – still judging. I love these judges. Okay I do not. But they do intrigue me. These ivory tower princes. Royal thieves. Simple leaders. I love the intrigue. The concept of the conquest.
I try to discern with these limited, perhaps infantile means the concatenations of these cataclysmic anabolisms – constructs of clearly feeble, fearful, insufficient, uninquiring minds. I peek. Another way to question. Suggestion. Suggestive?
Of what –
The ladies with no knickers. I saw them naked. Silverless and cloudy.
I saw them, the sires with faulty wiring. Wippity, wobbly on their old mares.
I shuttle between consternation, think of constellation, and then return, perhaps revert to the idea of the irate old man interjecting “what about our homes?” What home. I caught myself, enjoying the idea of a question. Tried to hide it with that period. They do it too. The final labeled tentative. The ephemeral concrete jungle.
I see no dreams here. Frosty milkless cerealed ambition. Cotton picker!
Black soul. Dead soul. They are not equivalent.
White soul. I hate the idea of imagery and connotation. Bad white soul. Irate. Inot. IU. This is cheap, cheap like the fruit of a transvestite loom.
I see you too.
Then I remember the purpose – they have failed, have they not? They are bad, are they not? I wonder. Another question. Another question. Because I see you too. Do you never ask the sufficient question, will you, can you, are you?