Ideas

Imprisoned in an invisible jail
I hang to the wall with chains of Milton,
Wilhelm's imbecilic histrionics,
The formal system of L
and Reza Shah Pahlavi.

I take my rest in the morning;
Mind is clear, colors crisp,
and the air is palatable.

I don't sleep anymore.
I roll around, and struggle with the sheets, my growing belly,
and the automatic working out of proofs in my mind.
Thousands of ideas are struggling to reconcile
like anarchistic limbs of some avant-garde sculpture
made from sheet metal, lengths of wire and various junk-yard apparatti.