2004Jan23 (Poem2)

Imagery is deceptive or it wouldn’t be beautiful

Penetrated
Punctuated
Exercise in writing without words
No need for idols
Surreptitious and
Sublime
Insidious fiction
Folded with a crease
Mountainous
Madness
Tense and pretentious
Pretense
Born ugly
And naked
And empty
Set in motion
Toward a desired end
Covered up
Thinly veiled crack in the brick
Showing light through artifice
And within
Still empty
Seed of knowledge
Ready to burst
Makes way through illness
Inviting aim
Like this void is a target
Poised
Posed
A hurled razor thought
Shreds itself
As emotional currency lands on paper

Can’t I get enough of these fake, fallow letters stacked up to resemble meaning? How pointless (still poigniant) words are – an addiction of thought. Writing is the act of striving to manifest being.

When ‘I’ is not enough

We say ‘Is’
We say ‘His’
We say ‘This’
And, soon, ‘What about me?’

Disect it and you’ll find nothing.
The implication of meaning is lost
In the proximity of separation.
There is a substance
Between giving and getting
Between the lines of sound
There is feeling
They’re all translations of the same (the only) unspeakable poem.

Listen to the null
The lull of the stationary

Filling a black hole
Or a bottomless glass
Is easier than it sounds
Filling one effectively in impossible.

Unbound constraint
This world (my world)
Has no need for hinges
Has no walls
No joining of different pieces
No water to span

Riveted by love
Stilled by wreckless abandon