Single file, like in the native's way to hide numbers and mourn in a slow peace. The leftover and forward once again make sign to a favorite son. They pause and worship a clay idol, as much contrite as devoted. Forgive me friend their eyes say, "I was not there". Or, forget me friend, "There was more than I could handle". The idol responds to the deep wishes of their heart, projecting back upon the somber all that they desire. They will carry now a piece, each a piece of the pain and nurture a wound in proportion to what their projection's demand.
I fought this poem the entire way and, as usual, the poem won:
The chirp of the flirty bird curls lightly on the flesh-- and they who hear absorb the vibrant end of the birdy's sonic thread. Apart from the howl and hoot, in a parcel of ample space, the sweet bird embraces a rhythmic tufted bop and binds the living race.
So I stopped and sat still as I saw the prime commence, And wondered on the possession of so serious a fact. the act presupposes an end. See, the mighty legs of the many runners fatigue upon the chase. The object lesson for all concerned? they run awfully hard in place.
The whole universe in this tight space. If not the whole, at least we ourselves. Complexity exposed and manipulated for benefit or benefitting needs. The need to express the whole of lives. The lives we lead in this tight space.
Under the weight of the prolonged rests the peaceful disintegration of a name. What is your hope? It is feeling, oozing past reality to where experience suffers spasmodic fits. It is the long and sullen attaining critical mass. (The belief that) with a push from the other side, the anguish disperses and comes relief. Maybe this is where you find it. In the remembering. In the soothing. To mean, to suffer -- sister soldiers of internal discourse. To verily believe the unbelievable.
And so shall the settled remain affected. Caught unaware in the blister of the street. Summer time, winter time, that holly holy, slim lined fleet... Oh, the settled shall decompose amid the bones of those with nothing but the rancor.
Trace BBs as they kiss the luminescent peak of waves; parabolic explorations observed by a bright eyed boy cognizant of the limits of their destructive power. See them arch through the midday malaise-- Tuesdays wasted in repetition, that's the state of this young boy's heart. Here is now and is forever, never mind the decades that slip past and the many meetings with one mind.
There's a wind that hails from forceful gales, its power uncontested. In the time it blows preparedness flows, its target unmolested. And the hull is sound as it sits aground, beyond nature's mighty grip. But the wind that hails from forceful gales, longs to sink its ship.
The quick twitch of the double take imbeds a moment and the solidity of stunning attachment causes eyes to place themselves at the world's disposal, happy to dispense with responsibility. Take 'em wherever to places grand and small. To faces, legs, hips and frames short and tall. Let loud voices find their homes (but far from me though). And let the cities and towns rebound from so much emotion, concussed from so much commotion, that they reset the great play. Starting again in the hopes of a vibrant, stunning attachment.
Style myself a bard? No. At least not of the inspirational tones. No soul, no super human form will ever fill my work with joyful praise. There are sights to see, no more, no less. Connecting -- only to make of this life a lucid whole.
Humans singing odes of joy, taking ownership of this life. Where are these persons? And, where, this life? The great minds hoping for the great feats. Not knowing, perhaps, that hoping is willing, willing but not ascertaining; bending into shape to conform with desire. The songs, the songs! The songs we sing to ourselves. The great echoes of desire. Cease these songs for but a spell, and hear the sounds of life lived.
Take a look at the world around you and start to add up the absurdities. Before long you might find yourself like the Indian King, the victim of an inescapable exponential progression. Absurdities are not all. There are people and places and individual circumstances that combine to form a hefty dinner dressing. The feast of large numbers of which every person is a part in some manner or other. Dissect and diagram your life according to the irrevocable power of these numbers and see them as the harbinger of the only permanence you will ever know. You are a part of them now, the glowing figs of the existence tree, and part of them you shall remain. Beyond birth and life and the countless tears and breaths, mistakes, misunderstandings and triumphs, hearts captured and minds repelled. None that mean nothing, save for the permanence that comes with being among the counted; that results from being among the being. Somehow this being is the being of "why," so often puzzling and scorned. The being of how, where, when, who and what. As to why? Because counted you were. And how? In the manner of the moment. Where? With those counted alike. When? In your time. Who? You -- among the rest. What? Counted is all.
Reward! And opening to majesty through struggle, bitter and blighted. The freedom of sensation! What release from these pangs. When confined and proscribed, I yet burst at the slightest hint of choice.