Upon a repetitious
thought. Upon a narrow horizon. Rain and sand and dirt and mud. Lizards running
quicker, stray kay-nines, we each look for gold; hopeful lakes, swimming
rapidly, knocking on clearance—the flame as it churns, the battle as it aches,
such beauty in the winners: most mobile in miseries; most managed in joys; life
is one huge contradiction: seeing eyes after all those years, hugging with
happiness, laughing at a private joke; people watch, they envy the beauty, they
smile out of contagion.
I was a lad, looking at
bears and kittens and snakes in the garden; the bears were brutes, the kittens
were creative, the snakes played violin on the rooftops; it becomes redundant,
Love—the fires, the furnaces, the dreams, the penalties, the winnings and the
loses; to change what is left of me—to feel complete in what’s left of me—without
confessing the obvious in me.
I chase like the river
might slow down; sunbirds watching, Buddhists nodding, a shaman digging into
winds; so categorical—so much room for Utilitarianism, with hope claiming to
attend to duty.
Pride and action—the trumpets of wars, trying to
understand each other. Changing becomes habitual; pain is normalized; and the Great
Darkness beckons softly.
