Eye Know

At my prime time
I surely rhyme
I write countless sonnets
Like numerous poets
I tell it like it is
With everlasting ease
I remain calm and kind
To speak my mind
As a free man in control
Of my destiny, I play that role
On a daily basis with success
God grants me health and happiness
So far, I am blessed to be alive
I am lucky and I thrive
At my prime time
I weep because I am happy
And I assuredly rhyme
In front of so much beauty.

Copyright © February, 2022, Hebert Logerie, All Rights Reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.

Like a time bomb cogwheel, every nerve-string in your brain seems to tense up when Existence raises new barriers against you, you run into petty, petty, calculating rejections; through the tiny, almost insignificant gaps of everyday life that have become one, we still peek out curiously and vigilantly, hoping that some organization that is advertised as a charity will provide you with some kind of cheap, free charity. Existence is still - in vain you would deny it - hibernating unwaveringly and not noticing at all when? where? Who was wrong to rightfully acknowledge its crimes and offenses.

Another Disneyland will follow - it is true - here in Central Europe, this one too, a worse, more inferior, and therefore more sloppy version. And while digitally infected Trojan horses are being sent here and there in the broad digital sphere of interest, the average person – well, they can – only turn their heads, because ultramodern technologies are incomprehensible to them, and not that clear.

It almost hurts and at the same time humiliating that your own goals, desires, and plans, like usurping Tyrants, are simultaneously towering over your head, and you are constantly 100% hooked to the core because you cannot understand how things and connections could change even three hundred and sixty-five degrees per second?! – Summer also produces hibernated obituaries in this disgustingly musty-smelling air, like when pigs roll their one and a half pound, bloated bodies in the lap of swampy mud seas, just because they feel like it.

And while summer opening hours – in many places – can be as late as eleven o'clock, you can hardly find any saving, cooling shade in the forest of immense concrete slab cages.

Be very careful, because from your birth you can be only one of you at the gate of the Universe, where beating hearts confess their immortal oath as a sacred vow. Because you are a speck of dust in the vision-illusion of mortality and you would do better if you now mentally go through every minute of your pitiful, petty life, because maybe it will be too late when the Wheel of Fate comes to you. You would say: it would be better to finally bury every single sorrow of 40 annoying, sly years, every single spiritual wound that can be challenged, refuted - yet the memory that ponders the past increasingly prompts you to speak demandingly.

Your restless, restless Ulyssesian confusion, in the catatonies of initial apparent madness, your restless buzzing soul, that you. Those on whom I could once count and upon whom you could build your shaky, suspicious trust are no longer with you. Even today, you would rather live with the solidified point-candles of your memory than forget where you came from and where you went back then, when you could believe that man was noble and good.

You deliberately did not play a bold gamble, wanting to flirt with your fate; but what sense could there have been, when now the reward of fine words, promises and truths is possessed by usurping geneviers as a kind of intermediate laurel?! The yew-flower wings of your dreams will slowly fall into the sweet-sad darkness of oblivion if you do not take care to palliate and maintain your Alzheimer's brain with memory exercises.

– The pressure already gathered in your brain coils in many forms, like a network of secret arteries, gathers the instincts and methods of action for you, you just need to learn to listen to the rumbling voice of your inner echoes in a worthy way!

Unknown, uncertain tomorrows stomp over my head like ghosts or goblins awakened from their sleep. I often wonder: have I actually changed so much that everyone has slowly disappeared from my side, or have they just left me alone, like half-witted disabled people, or Forest Gumps who have failed, or is it the grotesque, nonsense World with which I have come to understand myself less and less?!

My eternally childish self of adolescence often competed not only with speeding cloud continents, but also with the instincts of the Universe, which lurk in the depths of my eyes, unnoticed by the conscious; vanished card houses, dream ships that have run out. And while the great Wheel of Time, which has begun to rust, is constantly grinding the spinning blind luck, like hasty fugitives fleeing from man's happy and peaceful eras.

Whom Fate has dragged so stepmotherly after the ornate, posh daridos of prom-goers, although his specific plans had a meaning and purpose, today, as an outcast, he tries to thrive on the surface of the earth with less success. Why, that all remaining human intentions are already so cursed?! I would like to faithfully investigate whether the whole thing can have any meaning at all in this turbulent anthill World, and that even once a man could not have lived here in vain, - perhaps - this is now just a piece of crap, a foolish dream, nothing more, and so our useless, burdened decades are also turning to dust.

- All bargains and laws are in vain: The World and the weak little nobodies in it never change, because it is impossible to take a worthy guarantee for its promise and word. I will bequeath my sick, tachycardiac heart-stump, like a human, traveling Robinson Crusoe, to an urn: see, I am dust and ashes!