The Poet

So true. If at all something can be true. (the curve, always the curve, coming up ahead, a down slot fast slot down spot…stop, then go) the curve, outside, inside. All I can record is movement. Actuality is of no moment. Fickle. Downplay the wired. Upplay the actual. Inside the moment. Outside the real. Next…
Its been claimed that the world is a wiggly one. The fact fades and dives and ducks away from the beam and all that is collected is the wind of the movement once again. Not even a New York skyline much less a storyline. Judgments crush down asking for some solidity, but it does not come. Once again it is the history of the invisible.
And style. Style again. Just what does that mean? A curve a jab a wisp a…never is it good enough for style is that which is left after the attempt has been made at stabbing the truth. Stabbing to hold, not to kill. If ships sailed before my eyes then its seas would be calm. This is all you can hope for when it comes to knowing. Calm seas under which the swirls and the whirls hide and propel the universe. But only if everything is symbolic, which it, of course, is. Magic? I guess so. There is no there there. Only a here hidden and fulsome, blowing, growing, in ecstasy. A carving of reality one breath at a time.
And judgments again, the stopping power of the good judgment, yet such things kill everything. This is an intereting plot, the killing of everything. Only this will make everybody stand up and prick their ears. Pour money into the killer’s cup. But such a sight is a fantasy. There will be no killing nor should there ever be. An ending, perhaps, or a beginning after an ending, but a killing. Is something born for the movies where excitement is guaranteed. For life only for the deceased. Thursday’s obituary.
So then you have color because of your particular curve. Black. Oh pound, so much like judgment this thing, this turn toward the ferocity in the emotion of the color black because of a curve that you took and did not take. That took you. Where are you? Here. In dread of the fact that you end because your sight is not great enough to see the beginning after. It is the same for all of us.
Under there are porpoises too. Worlds and grasses drifting in tides, suns high above, minnowed rays blocked in and all pointing upward. We’re fish. How can one so silent as you deny this? Our eyes look in one way and see in another. We are you and you are we. Yet we continue on. We never even meet and this is just as well for how could we hold all of us in our minds forever since forever is the only way that really ever counts. So we see and pass on, our gills sucking in oxygen just like all the rest. We’re fish.
Perhaps our minds really do need the truths of the ayurveda, your air, my earth, our water, the fire of us all. Perhaps in only this way can we know what we are and where our thoughts come from. Otherwise we are drifters like logs in oceans soundlessly going away for years and years and years. We grab hold of our elements to use them, to speak through them, to ground ourselves in something other than the ether of thought. But our lips want to kiss such truths and in our love we smother them and go back to ourselves, children without balloons walking walls alone.
The sleepy eye coming in from the jowls and hardening our eyeballs as though eyeballs could be plucked out for seeing things which lead to thought. Thought is a pillow upon a bed which isn’t there. Bang, bang, that is our head seeking stoppage of thought when thought drips into puddles stagnant. Shoot her up, smoke her out, water her down. Works for me.
What would blank do? That mirror’s image is you. There’s got to be more. It’s only that it’s all so static, so staid, so just there. Where there when no whispers to move your head or raise a smiled lip? Just you and always you there in the silver glass waiting for something to move you beyond. But the steps are limited. There is no one thing that you can do. There is only you and you are what is to do. But the staidness, the bland…
Kick invisible toads upon grasses that taste green. What for? For the heck of it. You’ll never find those toads so what’s the worry? Swim in oceans blue that take you cold downward only a little bit before you buoy back up and see the sun, feel the sun. are those chocolate covered clouds that you see? Breathe the air that trees have made and sing with lungs still good. Enough of you will do this and it will be called life even though you do not know that you are living it. There are plenty who aren’t.
I see now why storylines recede from steps of breath and air. Everything would be too fantastic. Heaven would be painted green and believed in and such things would warrant smiles and you don’t much feel like smiling because of the smokestacks and all. But a world destroyed is lightless without the flicker in the innocents eye despite it all. And the guilt you feel is useless without the flicker, the very same flicker. Crawling must lead to standing and that’s simply the truth. Of course, the callouses on your hands will go away, but you are not a dog, nor am I.
When will the ship come in? this is a very real question, one that keeps me from thinking for long periods of time. It is really just a desire for peace. But people don’t like peace, they do, but they don’t. This is a sad fact. The human being becomes bored and action stirs emotion and because there is judgment, that thing which makes everything so real, peace goes away and we wish for it again until we are bored again and action comes upon us again.
The poets roam, their souls bared like the page under a magnifying glass. Because it seems so huge they expect huge things, huge ships perhaps, but they are not holding the magnifying glass and they are really just very small creatures, just like everybody else. Some push away the magnifying glass. Put away the poetic pen and wish to be the size that they are when they poeticize when they sit and drink a cup of coffee or speak to a friend. This is their lives becoming art and it is a real aspiration even though they cease to be noted and their lights are lost among the stars. If they have an inner strength though their secrets are carried with them and act as fuel so that when they do poeticize again they are purer, their lights are shinier. They are honed. But the getting lost can be painful.
So we end here because our bodies want us to. We will not live forever in this form and the breath out is true, the eyes close and we sleep. A million pictures later we arise and we still walk silently, balloonless, upon the walls of our neighbors.

Published in: on August 9, 2012 at 3:33 pm  Leave a Comment  
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