The guys around screaming football goals — their joy to keep the schedule In slow motion — in my mind screen — while I try to mend the heart That didn’t want to wake up today Every time I feel like my sadness is overflowing I try to approach it as a concept, because that’s the Only way I could handle it On my own I write it, I’m not a good painter, not a good singer
There are two trains: one goes on The other goes Down To keep up with a life I try to only look straight ahead into the line Not rising above, not wavering to the sides Trying to maintain the stability by sustaining The architecture Of the rail Or the other way around — a life to be The outside lures me It entices my humanity to undo the road To park the ride To make a life next to a fruitful river Plant a garden Plant an apple tree, not to eat from it Just to observe How the ants will behave Plant a garden, watch it go good Goes evil The line is broken
Three minutes was all it took For me to drink a cup Of tea and look Through the window and see the fluke Of hope happen unexpectedly Under the sun flowers going around The ephemeral and unending Flow At the same time The song was still and Over ….. I wrote that one before my last class today. It took literally 3 minutes. I was listening to Born To Die by Lana Del Rey and it made the sun over the white flowers sound like the Ohm from my balcony.
I’m a landscape painting A Tuesday evening I’m muddy green in spring The dullest French film I never had someone who I Could Be Myself Around Because I’m tedious and pointless if you don’t get what I see And no one ever does It’s terrifying, exhilarating, beautiful and saturnine It begins with never taking the negative spaces for granted And the wind is home to the other things that we don’t talk about
I don’t want to know the starring role’s perspective I want to know who and what lead them to that perspective I’m done of my own perspective in life I want to know the clerk’s perspective And what would happen if that clerk hadn’t been nice I want to know the therapist’s perspective And what would be of the protagonist if they had taken a different approach I want to know of the anonymous lover
My world is the dot of the i Perhaps yours is the apostrophe before the m, Which is also mine But the body of the I is the collective And if you capital the collective, half the self is lost I can’t see the other who laughs as loud as myself On both ends of the hall of mirrors The one who leaves was I before And the one who comes, will never know
I don’t remember if I ever wrote about the mess going on within me Or the fact that I too need someone to be my raison d’être And sometimes good metaphors are not enough Or the art Or the flowers I find beautiful Or the metaphysical stuff going on About the negative spaces in the sky I wish I had gotten the title Preludes but I guess I’ll have to come up with something else
The way the sun lands gently on top of some white flowers unknown to me From my car window becomes phosphorescent A holographic illumination no poet had to paint in gold leaf Or dream of I might be making a fuzz out of a simple view — isn’t poetry all about that, though? — I found a supermarket parking lot in the rush hour Just to write this Because it’s all that is left from an afternoon among the ones that know no poetry The ones that know nothing of flowers or the magnificence of the sun on top of them
I’ve just read this quote from Adrienne Rich on Twitter: “Poetry is, among other things, a criticism of language.”
What do you think?
The nowness comes from general — stable or not — environment
Cyclic past is both dependent and independent from general (hovering) past There are no cycles in the future, because in order to have cycles One needs to have been living or to be living them first