#meld
How much can a lizard know, I wonder,
looking out my window at my rock
in the shadow of my house,
always a glance away when
an I am in this position
and aware there is
there, the rock, the still threaded witness,
in granite,
the shaking that shook up all the mountains
shook them all all up
at once
it was a whole planet shaking at once, rung
like abaodingball
abiding in the echoes we can hear with our augmental
ears,
we know whales sing when no one is listening,
as we know the sound of a certain tree
falling
in
a legend, new and old, a sticky thought,
ancient of days, is this lizard brain,
you still work?
WOW, OLD CODE FROMe ericfrome-ish havingbeing
Tomas Auge, reviewexpress weighting algorythm,
it tipped. 13 years, 327 days, 57 minutes 13. nnnnnnnnnnnnn
Any time this happens we yoostasay selah,
now we breathe,
once to be
once to have
once to hold and look around. are we dragging any fool
to madness?
Sep 13, 2020
Sep 13, 2020 at 8:03 PM UTC
#
*Whence do ye derive from all destiny so great and gigantically,
Within thy Shakespeare’s eye - doest ye see all that love is intrinsically?
Like, “Pummeled inside so many a verse we ride along for better or worse.”
Only the faithful remember where from that line dost come.
And if thou art my good and faithful friend, pray tell me, what is this curse?
Oh I’ve scored your sonnets, I’ve played your plays passing so many a day
Emulating your way and yet all I’ve written is bound to decay.
But my good and immortal friend - is all that you possess at home with me?
Ever is destiny as blind as the righteous are ********
If the righteous met you on stage would they not see you like Yorick - beheaded?
But ‘tis only this stage which hosts your heart, to your enduring greatness.
And as your spirit comes to me in my pen, help me set it right again.
Here - I, the buskin of old that has not vanished, I push my pen
Toward thy inward powers and feel within my fingers - you move -
Doubtless swells of ink and chalice with words meant to soothe.
You trace my heart within your palette and as I watch - we appear -
One letter after the other in the affected black knowing nothing of fear.
But do I not have two hands Sir, William?
What say I scribble with the right whilst thou writest with my left?
And with the left hand I write...
At great length I consider Aristotle’s thoughts mighty -
When sewn onto a lamp shade - but he himself is not as easily seen.
Round him were seen a flock of birds screaming
Of my tragedy’s with the wailing of a dog’s bay marking my dramas
Around as by chance, by chance I stood giant over all my terrors.
My bow is extended, the lock bolt released, words affixed
On the string, steadily aimed at your heart.
And hast not the line, “Alas, poor Yorick” found its eerie way into
The lines of Hamlet – lines that I never wrote into that play?
For they only doest exist in the collective minds of the readers.
Oh, aye, I wished for my soul that I had written that line
But it is one that I cannot claim exists in my play.
Doest thou venture forth with a hardier action now?
Thus to descend to the departed souls found in the graves here.
‘Tis here I lie in broken words to ask the prophet of where
My soul relies – to see Tiberius I come – the old Grecian –
My nature to be amused but vainly so conveying up my drama.
Oh nature, my nature, hast not thy stage tread me ventured?
Aye, and naked besides so that each rib does count.
What? What truth of old is to be seen in truth set on this stage?
I come to fetch mankind out of his own doom for there is more
To this tragedy, it scarcely is over the horizon and once it begins
It will move countless souls to a harness clad misery.
‘Tis well this philosophy of doubtless sensations refined
From the humor of the blackest infections.
Aye yes, it beats in jest of stolid and barren sorrow until
It is sufficiently moist and exhibits a graceful dance.
There entwines a solemn step which a Demigod moves
Neither for naught as we love what is Christian and moral.
Here – in the nether world - popular is homely, domestic and plain.
There are no Caesars, no Achilles, no Aristotle which appear on the stage.
Neither is there any to be seen of executives or cynics of commerce.
Only secretaries, per chance and brick layers and lieutenants read the lines.
Then with my right hand I write...
“But my good and faithful friend, tell me, what can such people meet with
That which can be called great? – that is - what great can they do?”
And my left hand answers...
What greatness? You ask – Aye, they form the cabals, they pay the mortgage
They pocket their savings and fear not where the stocks be placed.
Whence they come they oft return and derive their form from destiny’s greatness.
Greatness which rises a man up on high even when it grinds him to an incarnate dust.
Everything else is mere nonsense and not worthy of any acquaintances also,
All of our sorrows and wants – they too are here.
Wherefore then fly to yourselves if ‘tis truly yourselves you seek.
And then on that stage you shall meet your own contemptible incarnation.
There the poet is the host, the fifth act rendering the reckoning
And when crime doth become sick, virtue sits down to the feast.*
#
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 12:42 PM UTC
The night seeped with fog and haze,
As the bloom of darkness smothered in icy breeze chilled within the spine.
The night shall kneel before the coming dawn, for the stroke of rumbling and the tremor verbatim the heart asunder.
The silent roses scream from inner chamber kept in a personal vault, while I try to remember the tune that once allowed me to become a fluid.
I shall keep those brilliant nights tucked away at the edge of the earth, because not all was a bad experience meant to be dispersed, but cherished like a torch in a fog and haze.
For I know dawn shall lit the night anew,
And left by the spirit of moments unraveled.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC