dedicated to Robert C. Howard, composer, conductor, musician, poet
and maestro...*
city of confusion and disorientation
exists not in pixels or imagination,
but in full color absurdity
close upon each other,
we hear remotely adjoining living lives thru thin walls,
humanoids of ilk and kith,
yet say nothing volubly lest we
discomfiture confirm each other's existence
there is much sound, noise, confusion,
masquerading to cover an agreed upon
profundity of silence
between every living individual,
even if blood, bed shared
all silently hum the city's song,
perhaps, hoping someone will hear us,
proving us right, or wrong, or extant,
this being not a credo, but a creed
if no one hears us,
no matter,
we hear our own machinery humming,
loud and clear,
for awhile,
it is sufficient
"I love...to scribe about
the city I love
where I was born,
schooled and fooled in,
by many a woman.
The city where I named
and raised my children.
Will probably die in
this city, and when
I am long forgot,
my name never uttered,
you,
as my designated
rememberer,
will think of me
whenever someone says,
he was such a rascal"
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/604844/yes-i-am-a-rascal/~~~~~~~~~
a conversation, an inspiration:
Robert C Howard › These are my proofs. (I am not pixels) 13 hours ago
I love this. I was riveted to the page (screen) from the first line to the last. It reads like an existentialist credo. I couldn't help wondering if New York makes one an existentialist. Where else in the world can you live so alone in such a huge crowd.
Reply Nat Lipstadt
so true, so, so very true...why we hum silently to ourselves in hopes someone will hear...
~~~~~~~
July 23, 2014
11:11pm