A Poem Rife With Irony


Art is a kind of innate drive that seizes a human being…
–Carl Jung

metaphorically speaking we are stuck in a hall of mirrors
are you aware of yourself as you read/hear this line?
except for numerous revisions nothing is outside this text

in reality do you encounter the thing or an idea of the thing?
the view as always contains the viewer
without knowing it we are consumers of knowledge

the Other is once again not invited to the Party of Ideas
arbitrarily we arrive at meaningful fictions
sadly the Signifier has split from the Signified

as a matter of fact brothers Time and Space are relatives
there is no history just overlapping narratives
naturally we nurture the socially-constructed self

just tossing these hot-potato lines your way
some of them ought to catch you by surmise
not getting them does not preclude their being had

has the familiar been rendered unfamiliar?
like a giant helium balloon in the sea of thought
has the unconscious bubbled to the ego-surface?