I have not wanted to
write poetry in weeks. That bauble of
focus of being too much in there and not wanting to go in there. Sometimes the walls are plaid, not blah
vomit, not bombastic rainbow, but engineered in a familiarized pattern that
makes the vertigo standardized. One
knows the clock twitching between work day and week end of one wanting to not
be in either because this time has that itch of death and reprobation. The atheist plaque of not believing, at times
missing the old blanket in one way conversations through implanted teeth. The hopelessness is representative of, but
not a recreation of the search. It’s
scat of the hairy recognition of not being sure why I want to be alone. I know I do and I don’t. The balance and science of psychic trauma and
individual freedom, being watched, judged, misunderstood, feeling obligated to
explain rationalizations that appear to have only disappointed people,
attempting in leaps of artistic possibility in others and staring into the
abyss of reductionism and quietude of non-response. There is a stigmatism to the non-response of
the horror of being seen versus the mixed blessing of not being given a chance,
the truncation of tossing aside caution into acting ever so as if this is a
plate I will not push away from the table simply for the native essence of
being a plate.
I do not want utensils
or a place setting directly; I want the desire from the other to attempt to share
a meal. I can prepare on my own or maybe
that is the blockade? There is a barrenness
I find calming that others make me tremulous.
I am a conditioned human. The
ledge of writing a love poem or viewing that crevice at this junction feels
synthetic with the forced nature of a carnival wheel rising and descending in
view for the vertiginous stir. The uneasiness
of possibility of being surprised and jostled from the plaid bears a comfort
and disgust I crave and abscond. The
rotation is not so miraculous in the current prism, but I know too that is a
lie.
Love will always be
the miracle of infinite connection, to drink the cup of the universe and billow
the kiln of time and godliness and purity of what we actually are crying out to
fear in laughter and mirthful strength to immolate the notions to deride pain. Pain is the nature of growth. Growth is the nature of understanding. Understanding is the nature of
consciousness. To do is to transcend the
caked prison of the mind and be, to simply be and there is no key other than
love. Love through the universe however
one gets there, but it cannot be done alone, that much is certain. One must recognize the infinity inside the
self interconnected and common to all others.
This is the flint of being with another person to simultaneous split the
atom.
So this is the leak
in the system, the inability to properly pressurize and regain
homeostasis. The upcoming surgery, the
attempts at mastery of my body, of lifting, of yoga, of breathing, of
consumption in intentional acts to bear this chrysalis well. To embrace the abstinence of contact with
discovery through rehashing an old novel and reading like a mad person in a sanitarium
of modern culture nipping at the perimeter of wanting to enter and finding the
basic task of attending any form of social construct Sisyphean. The rock can stay at the bottom of the hill
for now.
The greatest whelp
is the idea that there is something I should be doing other than these books or
pages and I am ignoring or ignorant or passively peddling up the wrong hill or
pacing in an imprecise direction. The
notion to abide in stasis, to not risk the requirement of retracing these steps
of humanity, of exposure and seeing the lot wash away in a depleted glass of
sand. To have the words daughter,
spouse, friend, god, lover, partner dissolve in that fray as unpronounceable is
to stitch lips out of scabbed skin cells and weld convalescent silence. I dare not utter in this parched valley of
shadow seeking reflection rather than solution.
Solutions are for the dead. No
living being finds solution in any prism but one of illusion.
The stillness and
motion, the swivel of the universe in the vetted umbrage at steeples and
television trumpery, the cattiness of photo-shop grocery cart bodies, of wanting
to be wanted and alienated at the layers of social engineering and notice, of
noticing the machine and the coldness. I
can no longer bear the frost of the mechanics.
There is a flavor of truth in acknowledging so much of the biological
depression, that I like the clarity of depression, that one should be knowing
the better be unaware, that to become aware requires the psychic trauma of why
the unawareness tastes so much better to so many and to ask another to become
aware to be around you is a threat. It
is a god damning threat to entire systems of order and one becomes virulent to
the systems of order that maintain the human world.
I cannot go back in
the box and I am embattled by the science of silence, of most of my
conversations with authors and audiobooks while driving or in the grocery store
or inside an electronic library of novels and treatises swiping pages of the
dead and the lonely and the aware and what is there to say. I have tried in these years of reading and
living as Odysseus knowing Penelope married another and not wanting her,
wanting others in cul-de-sacs of shake, of willingness to toss the cart to
attempt to know a grain of truth, to jostle the gut bacteria of alone and risk
having to rebuild cities of rot, to give of the fecund harvest of these books
and hours of investigatory discipline appalled at how little one can learn on
one’s own, wanting to be taught something that is not quilled in blood. The want of another to want to be seen by me
and heard and fought for is so basic and untasted in the maelstrom jungles of
vulnerability.
There is the nudity
of poetry of saying I don’t know, but I want to try; I am trying; this is an attempt
to be of bare mind and body and be present and to be dismissed as probably too
vivid or boring or weird or normal or in vivisection inspection of the
situation one never knows. One never
knows because there is not the desire for a conversation only the reverberating
hum of code of the way one says and does not say this is a comfort zone or a
support system of distance of what presence means or seeing or being seen and
time and allotments and sex and a body and a spirit and planet and a universe and
all of what is confronted in the concept of a response becomes blasphemy.
This price is too
much, to recognize the dynamics here are to witness a depravity in the
arbitrary and the energy of what is this, who cares, I would rather uncover or
engage or participate in an alternative, which is normal and appropriate, for
the volition is the determining arrow from the quiver, not fate or providence or
justice or one to one equilibrium calculated based on a perspective of either
of the individuals. The only equilibrium
is one of totality in energy and focus between what is.
So this surgery and
assessment and calculating the reiterations of hopelessness or seeing the
Earth, the state of the species, the potential of technology, and feeling so
very far away from love. The thrum of
love in the background is inescapable in the harmony of who one is. Therefore to find any other frequency will
modulate discord. This is an ancient
truth emblazoned on the crest of what it means to be spirit and stitched flesh
attempting to converse in moments, to be in moments and cultivate
presence.
So it is I am not
sure if this is waiting or evolution or muscle tears in bloody tolerance to
endure the magnitude of what is and what is becoming, but I am here.
