There are unseen forces that oppose
 motivation and seek to douse
 the flames of inspiration.
 
 Sirens sound,
 waking up the dead;
 thieves are on the run,
 self-deprivation seems
 both a cosmic effect
 and an ethical imperative.
 
 Memories are fragile; they 
 invariably slip away,
 are easily destroyed,
 and as you know,
 motivation can be elusive,
 absorbing the potency
 of the cosmic shift.
 
 When you add information,
 it becomes ambiguous;
 an odious atmosphere of tobacco, earthly morality,
 and pickles,
 connoting nothing pejorative.
 
 The difference between knowingness
 and knowledge is only
 the echo of its source;
 this deliquescence into a
 comprehensive resonance
 is, like the slow
 beating of a giant’s heart,
 a declaration of ignorance.
 
 Inhabiting a world of their own
 the waitress grabs the old coot,
 and with some music
 and bogus spiritualism
 she licks the last of
 the whipped cream
 off her fingers.