…such a foolish man,
adrift a beige sky, so much dust and debris—at torn wings, or troubled
feathers, at cadence and misinterpreted energies: so solemn and edgy,
accustomed to silence, accustomed to praise: those inner alleys, those mental
valleys, those spirit-meadows: galloping through forests, leaping small fences,
racing to escape this haunting mirror: our dusky sunrise, at meditated
thoughts, while life appears as nosy: our interior cathedrals, such musicality,
so gentle or so Beethoven—this land of
whispers, this bridge to islands, where one is threaded precariously: as
uncertain vessels, living uncertain lives, where solace comes from a clear
conscience: this terrible chase, tiptoeing lyrics, assigned to myriad symbols:
if but to relax, if but to shed demons, if but tender memories: as a child
crawls, so indebted and needlessly needy, so eager, so curious, so forgetful:
to hold Baby Buddha, to tickle her belly, to select a nutrient morsel: those
candid eyes, such cuddly aromas, looking, piercing, and so necessary: our days
to outfits, disguising insecurities, realizing an unsure design: such newness,
such worship, found and lost and lost and found: this wavy pendulum, those
endless reasons, while grandparents are passing over legacies….
…what have we done,
so filled with anxieties, so rough around edges, so cursed, so blessed, and
absorbing questionable knowledge: our tender reasons, our concerned eye
contact, where existence speaks in Arabic: at absurd islands, looking closer,
realizing this twilight-zone: our morning alarms, our rehearsed coffee, our
boiled eggs: those fawning highlights, this mutual exchange, or this slight and
subtle seriousness: our rushed seconds, our million dollar auras, while
simmering into our daily habits: our repeated existence, as announced as
absurdity, for we seem so distant from our behaviors: we tend towards absence,
both internally and politically, while so hard on ourselves: this Calvinistic
Society, thrust into our duties, while something misses its objective: our
weekly gas, our nightly meals, or our selective apparel—so indebted to
existence, while missing existence, fueled and charging existence….
I
gain momentum, furious with patience, sensing this internal disconnection: I
sing this way, an existential poet, a philosopher, a theologian raising awareness:
this vest of plaids, this vague crevice, or this unsteady, but steady analysis:
minds wrestling with existence, our cosmological enterprises, throttled by
Spirit: as young but old, or old but young, or stricken with certain poverties:
at cartoons and teas, at traffic and uncultured, or running while found while
sick: our foods rising, our palms gripping, our throats pushing it out: as
revived warriors, thrust into Judah, while many question our Old Testament:
this need for Newness, this communal Matthew, our epistles speaking something
too complicated to interpret: our longer debates, this theological empire, at
various, sentimental baptisms: heretofore, this emphasis upon love, this
threaded reality concerning conscienceness, where some prove worthy of this
unusual, dungeon-like calling: our sights upon Moses, our deeper research, to
locate something reflective: this mirror in stillness, this want to share, as
abolishing something individualistic: those islands converging, this self
rising, while so indebted to this interior machinery: as but a dreamer, as but
a mystic, where it was years upon intentionality: those sky-havocs, those
interior pieces, or days at collecting shards: this welcome to self, this
ambivalent chase, while uncertain about reason.
