It is in - and shall be out
the art of arts rings from words that sprout

with throat deep blue
and a mind to hue

the puppet on a string
knows only this is true:

he never wrote a thing.

And when the world affronts me
with adventure and death

I'll be by the water
crooked smile laughing with life on my breath

when I was young
likewise succinct

I played the strangest game but
not once did I await to think

as far as I could see
that beautiful game
meant nothing to me

I took in hand a hundred rocks
of every shape and stature
and each were judged upon my toss
as my other hand did capture

the first toss fit not half the group  
into my eager hand
the second trial marked a loop
and rule unto the land

In time (at last) I held the stone
and as far as I could see
a beautiful victor left alone
meant almost nothing to me

I deem the greatest those who stayed
by virtue of the game I played

We crawled about the brightest childhood
Eye's pining at the luster  
and to our dismay
when at last we stood
alone and adjusted
the world seemed a dark and senseless structure

It's completely different
And exactly the same

Perfectly simple
Infinitely complex


Sufficiently I'm born
Yet to the Ideal form

This mutual duality
defines my stark reality

Scurry surface poet
there isn't much time
you've been swept by the stream
of the regular rhyme

If your words only go
to the places they know,
If they're nailed to the Earth
Then how will they grow?

Let them branch out
and watch them unfold
Let them ascend
and they'll never get old

A whisper of genius heard
Or phantom in my periphery
Ever stalking me  

Each time I guess their meaning  
Each time I try
The spirits cry...

extrapolate and you castrate
exonerate and you evaporate
say it once more and it's dead