The schizophrenia of sharing time

i would much rather die than
pour myself down those deep dark
bird nests that i have seen on tv.
who knows what nightmare 
or evil-looking 
mucous baby birds
await there.
and as i ease myself into
the bird nest
the soggy inside, quivering with animal life,
would probably eat my face

and yet, in some damp nest at nighttime,
the flash of a pair of yellow eyes:
mother!


the concept of burial bothers me.
i do not want to slip and fall
and hurtle down from this precious 
place at the top of the food chain
i must be special
it must be a crime to recycle this body

and yet, father inches along through the ground
eyeballs rolling against the pressing soil
guiding me to my body wrapped in gauze:
a veritable feast


and a few feet away, in a moss-covered pond,
a toad finally springs off a frond
plop!


smoking, feeling,
at the center of my cuboid room,
the immanence of experience

and bound within this immanence,
in each second,
experience - schizophrenically 
clamoring and clashing against
experience

sky jostling brick walls,
and the color of cement
here, there, everywhere
rising
into a raging gale at sea

and somewhere across the sea
a wall of ice
has torn itself off of Antarctica
and is sinking