will i question every answer?

I cannot write a manifesto
Nor type a holy book.
All my thoughts are doubt. I don’t even trust the sky
Or the soft engine of my heart, or these words,
Or that written somewhere in the Milky Way is even one
Objective truth. Sometimes certainty slips through my pores
For a moment, and fills my skin with its tangerine presence,
But that bright whisper never comes when my fickle heart
Feels full of rain and I ask with my eyes and the line that runs
Between my nose and the corner of my mouth how I should live,
What good a person like me could ever do. What good?
No, my absolutes are less useful by far:

Silver is always beautiful.
The tide is important.
The sea can swallow me like a little yellow pill.
It is sad when birds fly into windows.
I like eggs, unless they’re philosophical
Or fertilized. It’s that simple.
My constituent atoms will go on to better things
One day. All things, in fact. Someday
We’re all going to die. I think. Perhaps.
Maybe. You see? I’m no authority. But I do know
That limes prevent scurvy, that they are sour
And green, small and solid in the hand.
I love the smell of fresh, unscented soap.
It is better to sing than not to sing.
Hair can be cut off painlessly,
Unlike most other attachments.
The wind against my scalp, I know,
Is soft and cold, like a drowned girl’s kiss.
True things are slippery in my arms, reluctant
To be cradled.

And my fingers refuse to cling.
They slide from my grasp more easily than split seconds.
I don’t know where they go, and I suppose it doesn’t matter
How they spend their days away,
Whether they ever slink back in to return the keys,
Put their feet up between my memory and my suspicions,
Watch confused dreams whirr behind my eyes and teeth.
I can’t stand up on an overturned wooden crate and shout
To all creation that humans are very small compared to the cosmos,
That to look at the wings of fruit bats or to imagine the wild orchards
In Kazakhstan, with apples in every shape and size you can imagine
Makes me feel as though my very marrow
Is blossoming. Bone petals. Bone flowers. I can’t write
On a sandwich board that complimentary socks are as good as
Or better than a perfect match. I cannot write a manifesto
When I have no passion but everything I see, unless, of course,
I deny that, too.