What’s got me all antsy, anyway?
In an age when I can explain away
any question to enough satisfaction for today,
what keeps restlessness turning over in my chest?
The meaning of life?
The human mind?
There’s psychological, biological, theological,
dualistic, mechanistic, mutualistic, humanistic
explanations for them all!
Could it be we’ve invented so many answers
that we’ve caged ourselves in with them?
That the un-scratchable restlessness
is lust for an un-answerable question?
There must be a question that no one’s ever asked,
a situation lacking all precedent or wisdom,
a wild freedom flowing from who-the-hell-knows.