this is the mind’s subtle configuration:
light, dark, vacuity. a metastasis of
sound from dispersions. except
a few stray birds alight umbilical tightwire.
i start to dream the clarity of something
comparable to
vertigo.
in that high place,
pouncing, daringly immense, this experiment
is in the mind’s operative. but you have no idea
what I am pertaining to, or what I am describing
to you, as I do not have maps to begin with, nor
do I have the blueprints to succinctly depict where
to go in case my lostness intersperses with yours:
that there is only precision in where we want to go,
but never where we are at present, and that in the long haul,
long-winded ruminations are waste of time
and that to have wallowed deep in the grovel of mirth,
to sully in superfluity, and to give no care as though
120 kilometers per hour in the expressway, shotgun,
hands spread in the sky towering like lampposts yearning
for a steady acquisition of light, the sounds that take the
form of apparitions and we scream, yes we scream,
with tenderness and rhetoric,
are, of course sensuous narratives
the heart measures in quatrain, in caesuras, in verse
and breadth ( and or so, the simplified electric delight
of a word’s sweet measure hurled to the rotund of ear as
to move close in speaking / whispering )
to permit ourselves to boldly gasp for breath
after the thrill of realizing the terseness of things,
that allow us to speak beautifully for ourselves.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 7:54 AM UTC
this is the mind’s subtle configuration:
light, dark, vacuity. a metastasis of
sound from dispersions. except
a few stray birds alight umbilical tightwire.
i start to dream the clarity of something
comparable to
vertigo.
in that high place,
pouncing, daringly immense, this experiment
is in the mind’s operative. but you have no idea
what I am pertaining to, or what I am describing
to you, as I do not have maps to begin with, nor
do I have the blueprints to succinctly depict where
to go in case my lostness intersperses with yours:
that there is only precision in where we want to go,
but never where we are at present, and that in the long haul,
long-winded ruminations are waste of time
and that to have wallowed deep in the grovel of mirth,
to sully in superfluity, and to give no care as though
120 kilometers per hour in the expressway, shotgun,
hands spread in the sky towering like lampposts yearning
for a steady acquisition of light, the sounds that take the
form of apparitions and we scream, yes we scream,
with tenderness and rhetoric,
are, of course sensuous narratives
the heart measures in quatrain, in caesuras, in verse
and breadth ( and or so, the simplified electric delight
of a word’s sweet measure hurled to the rotund of ear as
to move close in speaking / whispering )
to permit ourselves to boldly gasp for breath
after the thrill of realizing the terseness of things,
that allow us to speak beautifully for ourselves.
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