lilting
voice, ghost ventriloquist, I sit in whispers—afraid to move, paralyzed to
think, infatuated with what I can’t become: How has it been? Are the woods
lonely? Was pain worth the travel? many at the dervish, Sufis are wilderness,
conveying beauty—the miles to its math, the metaphysic to the nun, at rain,
sipping acid, laughing to run back. such a cinema, her eyes screaming, her
mouth so delicate, I fight to be an un-self. inmost falling, inmost rushing,
waterfalls bathing decisions; calling in spirit, unheard in earth, such penalty
for science. a paradise in millennia, a future in miseries, so patient to have
lost us. so typical to write in first person, so difficult to write comfort,
thus, second person is intrusive. as a third person artists, as an academician,
so many prayed against it; to imagine David, pleading for their curse, like
phantoms in winds; to winnow intensity, to die so deeply, screaming at a
mirror; if to locate an inner world, a nether region inside, to find a face.
rereading some parody, the levity of the act, the written dismissal. coming
into a picture, seen as deliverance, one best not fail. any path—any course—a trajectory
to silence. those California ways, as delineated, never the first person met.
torn lilting voice, the feel is fantastic, the curse in inveterate. many
anchors, many woes, a fever in design, a mailing to myself; trying in gold,
reduced to copper, one might settle for silver.
