ah Pynchon how can you keep it up
hundreds of pages to click through
filled with frantic fun can it really be
I force myself to stop reading to write
it makes less and less sense to keep on
doing what I do all these years no gain
or sense what is art why do I bother
I can't remember why I cared so much
I not only liked it I believed it mattered
more than anything reached everywhere
deep wide and surface too troubling to
be beautiful truer than the tragic reality
I like typing processing words arranging
meaning in hints hidden inside the facts
things are as they are and will not stay
but I can keeping putting out what comes
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