when life was elsewhere

a poem i wrote last night
--
"life is elsewhere?"

elsewhere
is life? - but:
how can that be
when all that is
is here
and all that isn't
is nowhere
(tangently, then is all
that isn't, if nowhere,
somewhere?
thus, is it? - stale);

yet, scorn the here and praise there
if you must - yet
then, where are you
at the utter moment
of your poetic waxing?
how can you be here
(as clear a fact as
day and night) with
life, dancing,
not?

are you then
poetically lifeless
(a soldier unstirring
by a river?)

and then one subsequent question
we have yet to trip
on our tongues
(aside from such what then
is life nonsense -
save that
for the end of the
universe, i say! -
where we say "was"
ponderously instead of "is",
every semblance of
being gone - thus, is is was
at that point -):
if life is truly elsewhere,
what is here among us,
breathing and moving
dust creatures
that we propose
to be?

i answer you,
voodoo poetic,
two roses in my fist
and white blood running down
my arms - (so Apolline):

here is elsewhere
- and all distant oceans
in between.