11/5/15

Simulation

 

 

The game doesn’t notice pauses

while gods attend to mundane concerns.

All these micro stories, so real,

anguish in motion.  All those petty irritations,

iterations, guilt and shame outside, above --

bubbles afloat hug personal worlds within.

Time as pages, folding back, musty, almost

golden.  Pages forward clean, unwritten

(unless with mystic’s invisible script).

Vastly illuminated bubbles, strong protection,

transparent.  The game invites us,

keeps us equivalent to sane.  Intent on weaving stories,

cast consciousness has no receptors for pain.

Only vicarious exquisite impulse emotion --

better than drugs.  More addictive.

Projected suffering marionettes our motives

manipulate, yes, we may identify deeply as we choose

to so intoxicate.  What have we beyond the ever more

intricate game?  Nothing so grand.

 

 

Gypsy trance

low light

insistent beat

syncopated heart

womb memory – or wound.

Tell me your painted stories.

Imbue magic by your tragedy,

solve your tears.

Pits, caves, dark shameful places

adhere, embrace like sad children.

Say again. 

I truly mean to hear you.

Shake me.  Don’t snarlingly leer

as I drift.

Those constant damning voices lull

familiarity.

Please don’t mistake my struggle to

understand as not caring.

But, no, you simply have no use for

powerless extras.

 

 

11/5/15