and indeed poetry, the science of abandonment, and contentment with such feats, the science of unabashed conquests, and very little regrets.*

at least a grave is not as depressing
as a digital biographic article
on a page - at least then no
leisurely time to attach to the orbit,
at least then no voyeurism of sorts,
i too think posthumous fame to be
the perfect escape, although at a great
cost; what a strange life we lead,
periphery or not periphery, silent
squabbles over who presides over the
throne and who presides over the
peddle stool; what a strange life,
it's not so much about regurgitating the
exactness of facts, but about how we feel
concerning them - strangers - those defendants
of the facts as a necessary rigid upkeep -
the ones of phobia uprooting vines and
weeds, to clear the way for the pristine -
or as one man said: 'it's so beautiful,
but it's so ****** up!' true that, very true
to be sure - oh at least read with the same ease if writing,
with the same ease - do not make it missing -
but why make adamant the up-keeping of
facts, mistranslating emotional content of experience
with superstition - for fear that the stronghold of
facts will crumble should one impose a straight
line on the Pisan tower? indeed i finally
met my tedium in reading Ezra Pound's cantos,
pages 488 - 489, indeed there i met Sisyphus,
one night, one tiresome night i met Sisyphus rolling
up a hill of blank an inkwell, but i have an excuse,
i said, i assure you! these pages are denoted among
all other pisan cantos, the man was in prison,
i gave up faith with him giving up faith,
i too in prison, divorced from my library,
given only abstracts and cold things,
but given pen & paper, remember: given pen & paper!
i gave up hope finishing the **** book damning
all fellow countrymen on those pages,
the stint at the asylum was like a holiday
in comparison - fellow caged budgies attested likewise;
i'm waiting for the right shade of pink in the sunset
to rekindle hope, and walk with him to the end
like dante holding hands with virgil in the inferno...
i need time, i need a sip of water, a crumb or two of
bread and rest... after all, seeing what's to come,
i see him airing, opening windows to his house
of poetry, venturing into blank space, open spaces,
conquering his agoraphobia but inverting it (somehow)
and writing more scarce, more scarce, perfectly, scarcely...
long gone the complication of phonetic encoding,
and hence the firm belief in the chinese pictogram
method of saying, something like: good day, good morning,
goodnight...
but here i am, strapped with him in the Pisan ghetto
of iron bars, exhausted, having favoured the winds
for so long and eager, exhausted,
as the sails are rolled up, and the oars have to be taken
up by hands to row; when will that time come
when the sails can be unrolled? i dare not know.