Anattā (not, without) (soul) ~ Monday, 30 March 2020

The difficulty of writing memoir 

holds the best part of your life is over, 

everything here on out is past events, 

depending on the person, late bloomer 

in his fifties, rough childhood, pure rubbish, 

figure no one in their right mind would read 

filth of this nature, total waste of time, 

in his need to address his phobias, 

culture bypasses him with one swift kick, 

ugliness appears unacceptable, 

life lived inside his head, always trying 

to get out, to say something meaningful, 

yesterday lurks underneath tomorrow, 

on recognizing the mind as shadow, 

finding all description projects the self, 

windows act as barriers to the world, 

religion beats others as with a crutch, 

in faith, we exclude but to find the same, 

to accept others without exception 

in a regard held unconditional, 

nothing stands in the way of positive 

gratitude for being alive and well, 

muddled by past experiences, pain 

enters consciousness as a metaphor, 

mental cognitions of his own body, 

only the eyes act as a barrier, 

in reality, inside and outside 

remain one and the self is a fiction. 

The Bookseller to the Reader ~ Monday, 30 March 2020

The author in question, to my astute knowledge, has never seen a book, 

has never walked into a bookstore on purpose, or even by mistake, 

entertaining himself by perusing the shelves, wandering aimlessly. 

Books are a religion to some for sure, belief in the Word, I mistook 

on reading the Gospel according to Saint John, the beloved of Christ, 

on witnessing His death, John gives testimony so others rise awake, 

kiss the hand that feeds them, gathering up His sheep, always unselfishly, 

still I read critically, not as the faithful read, but as one cast aside, 

even after reading the Gospels in English, watching a French bank heist 

left me feeling better, like watching a movie makes more sense than these words, 

literally, decades past before the author gave a reading within, 

even he found it strange, accustomed to the woods, the songs of native birds, 

restless, he talked, pacing, as if upon a stage, or on a trail, his thin 

tall, wiry frame, could not stand sitting at a desk, nor remaining inside, 

only, I had coached him to focus on his breath, to mediate before 

the reading to his fans, the readers of his book, the book he didn't write, 

he had a ghostwriter, someone who knew bookstores and the scent of old books, 

elegance of manners, the author chewed the fat and spat in the bookstore. 

Readers as audience watched and listened to him, had him sign their copies, 

entertained for the night and satisfied, they rushed home to eat dinner, bite 

another few chapters of their latest conquest before thinking...the crooks 

darn well know better than to take money for tales of milking the poppies, 

everyone came to me, after twenty-two years, for my resignation, 

readers around the world care not for booksellers, but for denigration. 

Gardinier et fils ~ Sunday, 29 March 2020

Withered hand weathered black by the seasons, 

      ignorant of comfort in the garden, 

hopelessly in love with the dirt, the soil, 

      sun burnt flesh, year after year, four reasons, 

art, beauty, pleasure, science, and logic, 

      the children point out, as only children, 

traipsing through the woods, coming to a boil,       hot beyond belief, attempt to make sense, 

desperate to understand rhetoric, 

      empty vessels, dried sponges, and blank slates, 

organic biochemical machines, 

      watching the withered hand, under intense 

ecological conditions, touch fates 

      incongruous rules to bend nature's genes, 

sincerity hides behind this facade, 

      limping, one leg broken, holding a cane, 

not manufactured, carved by his own hands, 

      lifts his body, from plot to plot, Haddad 

on his hands and knees tends tomato vines, 

      touches his forehead to cool his warm brain, 

the heat from the sun, under his hat, brands 

      oysters over his skull, covered with sores, 

challenged by difficulties, Haddad dines 

      classically, as a bachelor, alone, 

humbled by ghosts, his family, all dead, 

      hungry to remember, how the bull gores 

apart the twins, their moans, he hears a drone, 

      after his bride commits suicide, thread 

notably cut, fate follows one rule, fines 

      never occur, the fee for life is death, 

green thumb, never a moment to forget, 

      gardening was his way to breathe, the bores 

entertained him until he left, his breath 

      excited by weather, hot, cold, and sweat. 

---

"What does not change / is the will to change"

from "The Kingfishers" by Charles Olson

Des banalités insatiables ~ Saturday, 28 March 2020

Insatiable banalities ignore 

neither formalities nor voracious 

sexual appetites, they delight in 

apéritifs before, digestifs after 

tormenting their offspring with fine dining, 

inglorious in their nature abhors 

a vacuum, horror, horror vacui, 

blameless in their lack of shame and honor, 

limitless in their depravity for 

endless war, forever invincible. 

Banalities satisfy their hunger 

accusing each other of ravenous 

nevermores, customs and conventions 

attended to by negligent parents, 

latchkey kids left alone at home observe 

insatiable banalities abroad 

teasing prostitutes with money galore, 

invested in uncovering the past 

ergonomic children manage their chores, 

sustain a house of cards served by murder. 

Rehabilitation ~ Thursday, 26 March 2020

"What do I want? A wish upon a star..."

What do you want, my therapist asks me, 

how do I say I want my childhood back, 

ask and you shall receive, she says to me, 

to quote Matthew to a lapsed Catholic...

did I just ask for Heaven to open, 

or for manna to rain down from the sky? 

I want to fight those who hurt a small child, 

wish upon a star, the first star you see, 

anger and rage beaten into a boy, 

nothing removes the memories, the scars, 

to this day, I cannot find peace, this life...

A child wants attention and love, but God...

would that I knew what God wanted from me, 

if I run alone, spit and curse, the pain 

shimmies like monkeys down my spine, I feel 

horrible, but I know it's good for me, 

until I find solace for my sorrow, 

pain, discomfort, and dissatisfaction, 

only these truths bear the mark of wisdom, 

nothing will release me from this burden, 

ask, it will be given; seek, you will find, 

still, these words perturb me, I am so lost, 

the stars shimmer and laugh at my dismay, 

as an adult, I am broken, to find 

restoration would be my redemption. 

Virion ~ Tuesday, 24 March 2020

Last year, after Thanksgiving, the turkey 

and stuffing and all the fixings, I slept, 

surrendered to a food coma, nothing 

to worry about, sacked out on the couch, 

yes, I was surrounded by family, 

even if they were my girlfriend's cousins 

and closest relations, they didn't care, 

remember 2019, we stayed close 

and had fun, went to work and threw parties, 

for people we barely knew, big shindigs, 

that was my job beside the box office, 

everything went smoothly, for the most part, 

remember 2019, we had fun. 

Then, on the first of December, someone 

had gotten sick, the first case, in China, 

and nobody knew it was a big deal, 

nobody thought to prepare for a storm, 

kidding ourselves that it could never spread, 

still, the public heard nothing from the news, 

granted this happened before in China, 

in November 2002, a bat 

virus infects animals sold as food 

in an open marketplace to people, 

no one knows they're eating infected meat, 

going viral takes on a new meaning, 

that we ignore biosafety concerns, 

however often, around the whole world, 

ending human lives over and over, 

that three Presidents have not prepared us, 

undertaking other global concerns, 

really should worry people to no end, 

kidding ourselves like teenagers, the fun 

ends when people die, unfortunately, 

yes, we must act to safeguard the future. 

Essay ~ Monday, 23 March 2020

"Is there any knowledge of things unseen, or not?" ~ Peter Abelard 

The history of science brings to light 

how things unseen in the past are now seen, 

electron microscopes and telescopes 

have allowed us to see objects that were 

invisible to the unaided eye, 

science shows us what we cannot see now, 

technology lets us view the future 

ordinary people lacked in vision, 

resourceful as they were in sciences, 

yesterday's giants built on their shoulders, 

only today, we are still in the dark, 

foraging in a forest lacking growth, 

science reveals one fault, neglectfulness, 

created by centuries of constant 

inconsiderate acts, small but mighty, 

ethics seems absurd on such a grand scale, 

nothing we didn't know right from the start, 

conditions for exploitation occur 

even in the worst of circumstances, 

bring us knowledge of hidden potential, 

remind us we are protectors of earth 

in our acceptance of co-existence, 

no one species dominates our domain, 

given we let equality take place, 

servants to a higher understanding, 

trust the future will let us make amends, 

only sincere and heartfelt gestures bring 

light to those still lost in the cold and dark 

isolation of self-imposed prisons, 

granted we have the key to unlock time, 

history gives us more than perspective 

to work out the horns of our dilemma. 

The Rite of Spring ~ Friday, 20 March 2020

If you were born highly intelligent, 

      but socially naive, how would you feel, 

frustrated everytime someone calls you 

      sensitive, like you chose this persona, 

you picked up a mask and acted the role, 

      like awkwardness was some kind of ideal, 

only you never understood what worked, 

      you could never be a jack of all trades, 

undone by a gift to write what you felt 

      was the truth but only a truth for you, 

wishes were kisses, you'd be a writer, 

      a novelist, not a lousy poet, 

everyone thinks writers make big money, 

      they blend facts with fiction, storytelling, 

really, a novelist has as much chance 

      as a poet at making it big time, 

everyone knows Harper Lee, her novels, 

      but what about Alice Notley, her books, 

basically, some of us choose fame quicker 

      than our cohorts, some languish in the dust, 

of course, we do not choose fame and glory, 

      that is the mystery of destiny, 

royal, noble birth may imply the good, 

      but more often the bad is better known, 

nobility is conferred from above, 

      in hard-fought battles to overcome self, 

history portrays the beautiful few, 

      alongside notorious murderers, 

if power-hungry, greedy dictators 

      did not do good for some they'd not be loved, 

given none of us choose the conditions 

      of our upbringing that builds character, 

how we evolve to the person we are 

      is some sort of strange magic, a blue pill 

lets you be free to act as you so choose, 

      a white pill stifles creativity, 

you never know when the pill is offered, 

      or why it is administered to you, 

if you are happy, nothing bothers you, 

      but happiness flees as an emotion, 

no castles were built on just happiness, 

      but the blood and toil of poor laborers, 

trust your intuition, your gut feeling, 

      but abuse covers up that clarity, 

exactly whom can you trust not to hurt 

      you as a child, as an adult, trauma 

leaves us marked as damaged goods, unwanted, 

      by family, by friends, society 

learns by a look we wear, we don't fit in, 

      social misfits, possibly marked from birth, 

if you feel you chose your life that you made 

      and molded your character out of clay, 

gently remind the next generation 

      how to overcome the shame of abuse, 

ego, when not overblown, can open 

      doors of opportunity, to efface 

neither self, nor spirit, the voice within 

      seeking concert with other instruments, 

the symphony of chaos does not last 

      long for ears longing to hear harmony. 

The Magi Observe a Star to Follow ~ Wednesday, 18 March 2020

Outside the observable universe, 

unalienable rights still pertain, 

the edge of visible light to outer 

space, darkness beyond this cold horizon, 

inside the observable universe 

deep space offers a lifetime of science, 

education, knowledge, understanding, 

the imagination wonders what is 

hidden behind the curtain of darkness, 

every child imagines alien life, 

only the truth of the matter is this, 

basically, magic took place on the earth, 

say what you want on probability, 

even statisticians struggle with this, 

remember their scope of practice, our world, 

visible, seen, given, accountable, 

aliens exist across the border, 

borders, allegedly, make good neighbors, 

leave statistics to the numbers crunchers, 

everything known can be made relevant, 

under the scaffolding we find actors, 

noted superclusters of galaxies, 

in this theater, we observe the show, 

vision with technology ends with light, 

exactly where time lacks significance, 

restless believers want to see "jazz hands," 

see God, aliens from other planets, 

enter the magic show, observe the light. 

Observable Multiverses ~ Monday, 16 March 2020

Linear time appears an illusion, 

if all events exist before Planck time, 

not a moment sooner, the Planck epoch, 

entering cosmic time we see events 

as linear progressions of presence, 

reality plays out as past, present...

the future approaches the horizon 

in tangential parallel lines that curve 

mathematically with gravitation, 

elapsed in less than a second, the force 

appears unified with gravitation, 

pretend the past remains as memory, 

pretend this moment, here/now, as endless, 

eternal in all directions, but time 

appears in just three instantiations, 

right, left and center, time passes in waves, 

simple explanations for simple minds, 

as people in time, we perceive ourselves 

no better than ghosts of centuries past, 

if to extend the metaphor of ghosts 

leaves us feeling transparent even now, 

leave no stone unturned, search until you find 

understanding of the big picture, eyes 

see what the mind cannot concede, a stick 

in the water is bent, but straight in air, 

of course, spacetime bends, as well, perceptions 

never cease to need clarification. 

Bored Stiff ~ Monday, 16 March 2020

There was a time when I wanted to be...

      normal, average, ordinary, well-loved, 

however, that person just wasn't me...

      that person wasn't an eccentric freak, 

exactly, you understand my problem...

      the problem isn't with me but others, 

when artists choose to fly their own freak flag...

      it doesn't matter if they're queer or straight, 

ask them about their gender, they don't use...

      non-conformist pronouns to not fit in, 

seriously, I couldn't give a fuck...

      less about your gender conformity games, 

as to the question of society...

      fitting in has never been an issue, 

the problem lies with others' acceptance...

      what they see outside must reflect within, 

indeed, if you want to limit your world...

      that makes no difference to how I see you, 

maybe from the horizon of spacetime...

      the edge of the universe, you would know, 

even your miserable, inane logic...

      can't be seen even as a speck of dust, 

when I want your input or opinion...

      I'll ask for it, keep your comments inside, 

heads are made to decide what to filter...

      no one else needs to hear your thoughts of them, 

even if you're a cop, or think you're smart...

      maybe you see yourself as funny, no, 

no, I don't think so, no one gives a fuck...

      unless you're brave enough to step onstage, 

I know I am strange in America...

      but here people suffer from deception, 

when I was a child, I suffered shyness...

      others took advantage, preyed on my weakness, 

as an adult, I tell them, I won't hurt...

      anyone, but I know others who will, 

nobody understands the sensitive...

      they make a crime out of stating your needs, 

they act inconsiderate, offensive...

      they cannot imagine other people, 

egos inflate in an instant, I laugh...

      their heads cannot fit through the subway doors, 

double doors open for wheelchair access...

      these entitled fools fit in my pocket, 

the mind expands its understanding, soaks...

      up reality and experience, 

only some minds can't stop their expansion...

      proverbial sponges devour all life, 

brilliant minds can't help but to see beyond...

      to push the envelope, open new worlds, 

even if there is no one there to find...

      the point is to push past all your limits. 

The Good ~ Sunday, 15 March 2020

Look for the good in everyone you meet, 

only I see nothing, pure emptiness, 

on the inside I sense a connection, 

kindness from dogs to respect their journey, 

forget I lost my soul before my birth, 

only my brother and my cousin know, 

remember those who abuse the children, 

take a look in the mirror, blank, darkness, 

how did they choose to install it backwards, 

evidently, I'm wrong, it reflects light, 

good and evil reflect certain actions, 

only the actions of people, we are, 

of course, aware of causes and effects, 

decency and virtue come from mistakes 

in the past, made and learned, not lost, nor won, 

nothing but emptiness within, soulless, 

everyone I see appears just like me, 

virtually empty, desiccated, 

everyone appears dry as a desert, 

restless, wandering aimlessly through life, 

yesterday, I looked up at the great star, 

only I became transfixed by the light, 

not only did it turn translucent blue, 

everyone in the whole wide world saw me, 

yesterday, I felt sorry for myself, 

only then did I realize, did I 

understand, I am not alone on earth, 

maybe I could not see good in others, 

everyone sees good from the light within, 

everyone sees others from the mirror 

that reflects their own mind, darkness or light. 

Ajna ~ Sunday, 15 March 2020

Time appears as linear progressions 

interwoven as in a tapestry, 

musty, hanging on a museum wall, 

elegantly displayed by curators, 

although, this version of time, seemingly 

present, is a simulacrum of real 

presence, aware that time chimes in cycles, 

elapsed as the diminished sound of bells, 

arcs, angles, curves and lines reveal the world 

resolutely through perception, vision, 

sight, time connects the dots as in a game, 

a game children play to make the unknown 

seen, visible as an image, like stars 

literally forming a construction 

in the mind of Greeks in antiquity, 

notably presenting a strange image, 

entertaining as their mythos, stories, 

articulating meaning through culture, 

reason hid before imagination, 

perhaps these instantiations of time 

result in only two clear instances, 

only the linear and cyclical 

grant us accounts of our zeitgeist worldview, 

reason remains noncommittal, science 

extravagantly bows and clicks his heels, 

science waits for confirmation, logic 

sits on the fence, the unknown is unknown, 

in perfect tautological response, 

of the unknown, unconnected, unseen, 

nothing is said, Godot speaks but elsewhere, 

simply impossible to conceive, no?

On Translation ~ Saturday, 14 March 2020

On the left page, the original script, 

noted by scholars of antiquity 

to read as well as a reproduction, 

hampered by digital printing techniques, 

exactly pressed as it appears in books, 

linger a moment with an unknown tongue, 

elegant as ancient calligraphy, 

forgotten by most save a few experts, 

time has not been kind to dead languages, 

pretend your knowledge of life after death 

appears as clearly to you as these words 

given to us by wise mentors long gone, 

even if we could understand, we're lost. 

On the right page, the modern translation, 

noted by scholars for its clarity, 

trust this page as the closest you can get, 

humbly accepting your own shortcomings, 

evident in your inability, 

reasonable for most, to read Pali, 

if you could read Sanskrit, you'd have a chance, 

given you studied French and not Hindi, 

heaven knows which way the script reads, so now 

the translation becomes your helpful guide, 

present in learning about past cultures, 

ask if this simulacrum of the real 

gives you enough pleasure to pursue growth, 

even if you could read Pali, you're lost. 

Right Between Your Eyes ~ Friday, 13 December 2020

What is zen? Zen starts 

hovering right from zero, 

and ends abruptly, 

that zero appears 

invisible in real life, 

simply empty space, 

zen sees emptiness, 

enters this dry well to rest, 

no place else to sleep. 

Zen works in circles, 

ending before finishing, 

no need to worry, 

some need perfection 

to feel a sense of beauty, 

art through completion, 

remember zen acts 

through a sense of irony, 

self does not exist. 

Cockermouth ~ Wednesday, 11 March 2020

"The world is too much with us; late and soon," 

~ William Wordsworth 

The fact is...no one listens to poets, 

however bold their view, while their visions 

elicit a warning soon forgotten, 

wicked old Wordsworth had his say, regrets 

ordinary mortals seek to absolve, 

reason and logic predict decisions, 

lift the sanctions against business, pretend 

deeds done do not affect our influence, 

if we think for ourselves can we resolve, 

scientifically, climate change, the fence 

to keep out illegal immigrants, keeps 

out freedom and liberty to travel 

on this planet as God intended, when 

men and women decide how animals 

understand politics above their needs, 

canny creatures build tunnels past borders, 

however intelligent we appear, 

wily foxes burrow deep, a bear sleeps 

in a cave, under a tree, we may fell 

to build a home, a forest near a glen, 

humbled by human instinct to hide, falls 

under tooth and blade of longsaws, orders 

sent to destroy only what we need, lost, 

light as feathers in the wind, we may fear 

aspects of ourselves in others, God bleeds 

to watch our self-preservation, he cast 

everyone out of Eden; Adam, Eve, 

and the serpent itself, into desert, 

no more gardens, now barren lands, to search 

desiccated landscapes for food, receive 

service on how to dwell and hunt, forage 

over hundreds of miles of dust and dirt, 

only before a stream, we build a church, 

nothing more than tree branches, and a bridge...

Logic ~ Saturday, 7 March 2020

"Seeing is believing," or so they say, 

exactly the opposite speaks the truth, 

enter the world of misconceived ideas, 

is proof not a negation of our faith, 

nothing appears to be as we perceive, 

given centuries of misconceptions. 

If not seeing is believing, the proof 

seems unnecessary, the point is moot. 

Belief requires a lack of witness, 

endless arguments inside a phone booth, 

lifting the handle, dialing the numbers, 

if you don't have enough coins you may guess

everyone is willing to help, believe 

for yourself, we're not full of deceptions. 

Sucha ~ Tuesday, 3 March 2020

I love Dick! I can't get enough of Dick, 

like his name: Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick, 

on saying Dick seven times, luck changes, 

venereal diseases disappear, 

exactly, I'm impressed, too, but too much 

Dick, like Dick for breakfast, lunch and dinner, 

in fact, may be way too much Dick for me, 

consider kneeling and praying and Dick 

kisses you on the top of your bent head, 

I mean, you look up, kneeling, and there's Dick, 

cornered, in your face, all glowing, god-like, 

and what are you supposed to say, your eyes 

notice his head, his massive bulging head, 

this is tough to take, this may be too much, 

given Dick's proclivity to play games, 

entertaining himself at your expense, 

this is Dick in a nutshell, he's too much, 

even his mother said after his birth, 

no more Dick, I can't stand this anymore, 

on the contrary, his father heard her 

unabashed love for their new baby, Dick, 

given dad was outside smoking cigars, 

having a good old time, through the window, 

overhead, he heard his wife shout out, Dick, 

for the love of God, woman, what a name, 

Dick, you say? So was born Richard Sucha, 

in grade school, the kids called him Dick Sucha, 

considering that was his name, he thought 

kind thoughts of his classmates, until we met.

Intimations of Dantesque Splendor ~ Monday, 2 March 2020

The last circle of Hell has Bezos himself, 

holding each employee, a billion hands, 

each hand enters his mouth at the same time, 

lifting every worker like infants, 

as he attempts to maul their baby flesh, 

snagged on hooks with maggots, ringing buzzers 

to apartments with sleeping residents, 

cold as one degree above Lord Kelvin, 

in Bezos, nothing but the beast has power, 

rigid corpses frozen in entropy, 

created by death, Absolute Zero, 

light has no space, no speed to move forward, 

each employee returns as baby flesh, 

of course, Bezos can't resist tender flesh, 

frozen over into delicious ice. 

Harrowing this bloody Hell, Christ descends, 

enters to remove the maw of Bezos, 

lifting his hands, the billion hands removed, 

light enters like a sword to slice through ice, 

human souls have the chance for repentance, 

apologize for waking sleeping souls, 

sins absolved by order of free worship. 

Bezos attempts to burn the Christ figure 

enveloping the man in sheets of ice, 

zombies awaken in their rotten flesh, 

only the eyes of Bezos remain still, 

sitting within the skull of the Corpse Beast, 

harrowing this bloody Hell, Christ ascends 

into Heaven with the stillborn infants, 

mutant children of Amazon death camps, 

sinister doctors vaccinate women 

entering their third trimester with dung 

lifted from the labor camp of Bezos, 

from Amazon to your front door. Wake up!!!

A Portrait of a Mystic as a Young Man ~ Monday, 2 March 2020

As a young man, I kissed the Blarney Stone 

simply by imagining that I did, 

a gift for the gab is seldom acquired, 

you might say, so easily, what I've done 

on purpose requires no flight, no passport, 

under the stars, I envision a lid, 

nothing more, nothing less, nothing required, 

given I had nothing, they say the Lord 

may provide believers if they believe, 

as I have never been certain of faith 

no cash has ever come my way to leave. 

Ireland hides within the cover sleeve, 

kindly placed and embraced by Joyce himself, 

if I lie, I speak an inverted truth, 

simply see past the foil, how I perceive 

supernatural forces of great wealth, 

elegantly hidden within his books, 

despite my inexplicable insight, 

the fact remains, I kissed the Blarney Stone, 

hungry to understand, by hook or crook, 

everything was available, my plight...

Belief, with a capital B, my faith 

left me, "non serviam" the Easter Crone 

asks but does not receive her recompense, 

restitution must be made, in a sense, 

nothing lost, nothing gained, by grace for sooth, 

everything in the universe is here, 

yet if your mind is closed, it disappears. 

Sticks and stones have broken my bones, the voice 

trembles in tones indistinguishable, 

on the surface, from a cat without fear, 

nothing gained, nothing lost, we make a choice, 

enable galaxies to reappear. 

Metaphysics ~ Monday, 2 March 2020

My birth and my death pre-date the big bang, 

yet, although this fact seems impossible, 

believe me, it's a fact for everyone, 

in the moment before energy burst, 

roughly speaking, all events already 

took place, every thought, every twitch, all time, 

history exploded before language, 

as I guess, you are surely skeptical, 

no doubt, I am not worried about this, 

despite your lifted eyebrow and false smile, 

my assessment, your cynical nature, 

your inability to imagine 

derives from a focus on finances, 

exactly that, money is your greatest 

achievement and concern, it is okay, 

this fact does not bother me in the least, 

however I cannot open your mind, 

precisely because, you yourself have locked 

reality away inside a box, 

exactly that, in a category, 

desperate times require drastic measures, 

as I cannot open your skull to see 

the blocks you've created within your mind, 

everything is revealed non-verbally, 

trust that I read people better than books, 

humanity bores me to my wits end, 

eventually, I come round, play along, 

but what we don't know about the future 

is clear from what we don't know of the past, 

given, speculation is simply that, 

being exists before being exists, 

as tautologies go, this is a twist, 

nothing can exist before existence, 

granted, but we are all already dead.