a story, a long strange poem, and a thank-you note of a sort
~~~~~~
swords and verbs,
subjects and nouns,
participles and particles,
participants of past and futures
transitive and intransitive,
none can get pen-rooted,
sic transit gloria verborum eius
(fleetingly passes the glory of his words)
slow or swift, overhead, all unobtainable,
from the atmosphere unpluckable,
no deposit, no return, no po-ahem,
only a sad sonata denominated,
Air on the E(mpty) String continuous playing
likely something is a brewing,
clock internal clocking,
but no talking, just tic tocking,
ideas stumblebum in and out,
inebriated, fuzzy speeches,
don't reach out to touch or savor 'em,
those weird words were made for walking,
not for retrieval, sorting, storing, and
subsequent lots of
some assembly needed...
poetic conceiving...not
perhaps they are disfigured?
important but disguised?
definitely not credos and codas,
mission statements, definitions,
nah...not me, unimportant amateur passerby,
my only "laurels" come to
die at holiday time,
lariats to lasso, tether and then brownout,
a wintry green,
gone to nether garbage cans, timely and expediently,
per a calendar deadline
but an overheard conversation
on Eighth Avenue,
a ******-onto latched-onto,
undid this parlous state of
an evenhanded hypnotic flatlining,
a perilous mind,
infected with no-inspiration
"Why I do not share,
or publish on the Internet," she said,
"what I write is so
precious to me that
the thought of it,
orphaned and drowned
amidst the unending pixels,
water-falling words
into ocean trenches,
unborn, yet ignominiously dead
just the same,
at the same instant,
an unbearable pain,
childbirth and death,
all in one, unthinkable!"
"Publish" he begged her,
"too good are you
to deny this world of this,
the world needs it proofs,
you are a proof!"
stunned by an emotive slap,
I knew kinetically,
I too must have,
proofs,
of me,
worthy of presentation,
if only,
to prove worthy of
your time and thus
prove to myself
my very own existence,
even derision decisive,
is an extant proof of sorts...
~~~~~~~
My Proofs
having come so far,
task so vast,
bedeviled and bewildered,
I am the face I have seen
in photos and mirrors,
but how can I stake my claim
to be more than just a
passing fancy virtual reality?
you cannot bite me,
though willing do I tender
my body for your impression
upon my body permanent
you cannot caress my lips,
though oft imagined it,
the multiplicity tender of that dream,
makes the would-be reality of it,
pale with a shame of insufficiency
bleed and wept poetry for the unity us,
so hard, so oft, so free,
my tablet machine
human tear-tracked and deep red scarred,
the Apple Geniuses,
when they see me coming,
whisper it's him, Poet-man,
who made an
iPad into a tissue
that cannot be repaired/replaced,
and run away and hide
have I not confessed enough my colorful sins,
but alas, all you can see is blackened dots of crimes
hosted upon a white background
of pleadings for forgiveness,
i's dotted with rejection slips,
t's crossed with painful slivers
of writings crucified by me,
therefore, for the grace of god in man,
they died unnamed and lived only briefly
perhaps if you saw a man by my name
on your television, you would say
"****, that is/was him, it cannot be denied,"
but you cannot be sure, imposter,
what must I do, to make the evening news,
and claim existence, therefore I am!
I cannot say with certainty,
am more then a running-around,
neurons and electrons colliding,
a mess of sub-atomic particles
invisible and in periodic possession of a flavor
of the god factor or Einstein's hanky
but if you come to my city,
I can give you a location,
a centralized park, a wooden fruit-box stand,
at an end corner,
(cause corners end well)
where a man stands and recites
and sorta sounds like what's his name
if you want to be sure it is that one,
look for teeth marks on his body,
reading out loud from a tablet unique,
alternating stanzas with Siri
his spiteful spitfire editor and sometime fan,
the box upon he stands transported
grapes from California, oranges from Florida,
can't be sure, the stickers rain washed away,
and if he weeping as he chants,
odds are it could be me,
I mean him...
to be sure you must place gentle a finger
or your lips across, upon his,
if electrons you sense and taste,
and yours they embrace
as naturally as if they were waiting
just for you,
you can almost be sure,
don't ask his name, unnecessary,
for he will face you with these words:
*"Thank you, Thank you!
you are my proof..."
a story, a long poem, and a thank-you note
to one who is known as
Jara Fan,
from Saskatchewan,
writ as an attempted proof of our actualized mutual existence
beyond
mere pixelation