Writing
Writing, writing
I know not
showing only what I’ve bought
Make me fancy, make me fine,
words only mask what we forgot.
Tell me what the beauty sees–
but restricted
Never-ending story told,
the Passion only felt
How do you survive
when you can only describe?
–when the blow
can’t be felt?
And so quatrain one completes
the story that somehow
defeats
the purpose of the experience.
Every page empty as a lonesome Journal.
Yet so subtle.
The trees shine on forever,
leaves beautifully reflecting
the sun. will it stop?
Never.
We all know where this story will go.
Fill the pages from head to toe,
until the blaze of Carpal Tunnel
Seizes your tools
and you suddenly forget
which way the wind blows.
Continue on,
until the softness that you sing
surrounds and heals your broken wing
don’t lose it–
least you fall & break in half
in attempt to describe
a door.
Language does what is easy–
simple ticks, swishes, and curves–
to convey the Immense–
the love of a child
and his brother. But prose alone
will always be
A product of this harmony;
the sounds, the sights,
repeated
–Just as they’ve always been
But do they show?
I don’t know,
I don’t know,
I don’t know.
I see in my head
what you wanna convey,
But it was not mine–
it’s in your life to stay.
Every day, this happens to us.
A Language of Adjectives.
That is what we must undone.
Dependence on the viewing screen,
in front of men with sexless suits,
flashing descriptions of beauty
before their very eyes
And they think they think no less of this
of course, because their eyes
are made of myst
And we know of no other way to exist.
should this language really BE?
ticks and flicks and rambling lines
can never stand the test of time.
Where was I going?
You won’t know,
you sacred “El Magnifico”
who thinks he can control the Earth
–there is no place for you.
I still can’t wrap my head around it–
or won’t–
Either way, we still betray
what is Abounded
so stealing thoughts is the best I can do,
I state this plain and simple.
With all the grandeur I could use
to state my place
and make you think me worthy,
I won’t.
I write only what I can
About the state
of the world,
And expect you to not understand.
Because you can’t.
I see me change into a kite
Fly away————–
see soon what will come
–and be done.
I see dyslexia aplenty
hurting the desk
of mystery (black-cherry finish)
inside
where all the paper’s a jumbled mess
that doesn’t exist in the first place
Because this what-i-am is gold
in a field of tin
and completely
Incomplete.