Monday, November 16, 2015


Think to fool?
You have the stink of those
we hate instinctually.

Nobody talks to me.
So how can I speak to them?
I give what I can
looking on.

See, feel, bring into
conscious image
See it and say it.
Inchoate moments clarified.
Say it to see, to read, to realize,
satisfy all too vague yearnings,
sparkles that fade and
brighten so far, tantalizingly
If I am relentless, ever returning
to my private mission,
clear and magical vision
manifests exilhirance.

Don't matter if it's crap
just learning your hand on
the gun game
Same cave song -- can't
remember the tune
background music that carries
the plot over mysterious rivers,
under hurricanes or holocausts.
Fiction is meant to speak
beyond its specificity.
All language is metaphor.
Every story has many realities.
What is a story but an argument
in narrative clothing?
It's not about winning, but
crushing an impression.
Scary, surging, sending a message,
a meaning, reborn.

So he told me
it was like a wheel.
Each spoke held a special
memory, an occasion that
would not quietly fade.
A memory with which to while
dead time, make it less than,
more than real.
Locked away, alone.
Physically there is no torture,
not even discomfort.
But what to do, how to behave?
No one to scold or contradict.
No one to hear or listen, to
play against as friends, to share
the chores of explaining our world
into being.
This world I imagine, develop
its contours within my inner eyes.
I explain my world's many layers,
massive geologies, pretty associations
becoming ecologies.  Over condensed,
imaginary  eons, populations
of sentience evolve.  I scope in on
individual psyches.
I intuit their reasons and yearnings.
I listen to their anxieties and dreams.
I have found my vocation,
world viewer, thought spun into
alchemists' gold.


shush and chatter
nothing matters
it's all just noise
and sometimes for an instant


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