Recursive in Print

My mind recoils as I re
curse my
self with my
memories,
supposed possessions
struggling to win over
the consciousness
and exist according
to all the joy that came
before. It's an inward
impulse, sending me in
side. I feel as split as a bad
enjambment, as separate
as a long           caesura
as I wonder what this Me
thing is, what fizzes across
what kind of organ
to bring ideas, ideals
that I see 
in front
behind
my eyes.
And it's only by
poems
that I am 
making my
self see my
self, splitting my
self up into 
words and letting
language 
become a fragment of a 
figment of my
furtive recollections.
And of course I know
that now is concatenation
of then and then,
in the behind and before sense,
in the other meaning
of before,
ahead I mean.
Loops horrify,
those are the risk
posed by the past and the future.
Better to end
or begin again
than to get stuck
in a circle whose only point
continues to ride the circumference
a perpetual, recurrent
residue.
And yes, I say No
to Nietzsche's bad physics,
out of time assertion
about the going again
and again. 
We will not re
cur, 
the coaster only coasts
from coast to coast
and then the ocean
and the horizon
eat everything whole
digesting each
into unsolvable
fragmentation.