maybe I’m bias to facts, maybe to
dreams; it seems we have ups and downs, roads paved and unpaved, bets and antes
and recovery.
the masquerade has become indelible,
like thick marshy ink, or irremovable paint. the masquerade is poetry.
when shall we see—the mirror is
half empty—depicting a full face?
feelings live inside of minds, in
which a calculation has been assessed, has become like concrete—so metallic,
like steel rugs, or so paranormal, like it shall not be explained.
people are meant to be seen, understood;
often one can tell and show the how, but can’t explain the measures, mechanics,
the inner components. as pledged participants, undergoing the phenomenon, the
alibi is the experience of the poetry.
sulfur lakes, frozen oceans, polar
bear lessons; sweltering moments, or days in hibernation, the dilemma remains
the agenda.
the arts are fantastic—by the
graces of interior—to become engrossed.
we are aware of some mechanics, but
can’t speak those qualities, we move, ballet, weave and shun, often, spurn, if
not met with easygoingness.
I grow uneasy with design—virtue changes,
the palate is moistened with lusts, the body is calling souls into battle; so
noetic, like thetic poetry, each sentence to its meter, each brush to its
poetry.
the rescue isn’t the answer … the
person shall remain … the issue is getting the mistakes out of the behavior—in the
person.
some long voyage, some partial
quake, it’s amazing the arbitrary issues, to decide to intervene, where no one
is asking for presence, nor inviting the problem into one big atmosphere. I
speak of spiritual elements. many would will their powers, in the guise
of helping the reality. I say—it’s easier to wait for a prompting, aside a
myrtle tree, than to volunteer in haste.
the inner notebook is part filled.
the nocturne feeling shall pass. we seem to be at some peculiar pond, looking
upon high, weaving some sort of impartial understanding.
carrying what we knit, flooding
authentication, looking forward to the experience, if only to assert—it shouldn’t
be said.
the pieces are in disarray. the
mind is at alert. the significance of poetry is pivotal. the one understanding
how prose works, their vulnerabilities, their operational codes—is in charge—despite,
one’s uneasiness with that fact. we’re trusting souls with absolute
measurements. this becomes one’s life.
