”so oft we trifle words, expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness, as if they were the cheapest of
footnote filler, day tourists, to be treated as leavings, refuse for daily discardation, barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance, but leaving not, a mark of distinction”^ nml 2015
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these very words, the issue of my Old Abraham body,^^
children, these, young children, now four year olds,
but so ancient in word years, for they,
the product of decades lived, lost,
wisdoms now sudden unearthed by teenage poet siblings,
youthful all, who, stumble on,
uncover and resurrect as accidental tourists in a foreign land,
these very words to:
surprise me, remind me, recall to me,
how the words were cherished, tenderly loved,
now newly loved by those tender only in their years,
grasping pen and paper to diary their youthful travels and travails,
witnesses to their new early days,
exploring the boundaries of body + mind, exciting pleasures and
even more exciting,
their heartaches,
as they dabble in the unexplored,
the trial and error of life
Like life itself,
my writings follow no meter,
free in form, lineage and linage, to wander and to wonder,
follow machete carved new paths,
each essay, composite of the drips and dabs of a human,
a pastiche,
a composite
held together with spit and tears, reflections fresh on old memories, an accumulation of past deeds requiring final payments,
all stamped overdue as if we knew life’s actual due date,
when we draw the double line of final summation,
uttering, here, here are my totals!
it is the wee hours of the early day,
nighttime of the prior, the when we humans pass
back and forth from the real to the spirit world,
when the unconscious and the faint hearted scheming merge,
when bare remembered imagined and real life dreams blend,
a potpourri
of our unique treasured immeasurable, red rich soil for our mining
this years land’s end draws nigh,
the belt drawn tighter though a new notch,
just now punched and prong filled, the airy atmosphere rushes into
spaces that did not exist moments earlier,
our belts, the tree rings of a human’s life,
our waist expands and mind shrinks simultaneously,
but one metaphor of our journey to ebbing
enough ramblings.
young poets, look forward and new, by screen refreshing eyes,
by visiting the trails cut by your predecessors,
like the breadcrumb words left behind with you in mind,
paste them anew in unforeseen combinations,
valued for being both prime time polished and real renewables
just “reborn”
our, nay, now your precious words,
precision tools to shape new dies, your poems,
for mine are almost all expelled
Dec. 18, 2019 2:30am