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.