To Spinoza

By Richard Mather

nomads we

traverse

a flat

shimmering

world

breeding

images.

signs

& erratic/

erotic

encounters;

surfaces

effacing

depth...we

killed being

you and I –

for what?

for the sake

of ecstatic form.

modes

counterfeit

substance,

producing

a synthetic

real.

If being exists

it does so as

an effect

of the

imaginary,

of imaging.

so, not-being,

not-at-all-being

then,

not even

becoming.