If wishes were prayer
Saturday, January 28, 2023
12:06 PM
let me go wry or right, let me
be as one you witnessed falling,
and for that breath, believed,
wishes work as wonders do,
with very little help from things
thought truer.
I think of you, reading words I write,
I thrill a little at the intimate point of wedom,
the thoughts I fit to words, and sent into the
other
state, to wait, and wait, and become too tiny
to make any change not made,
at the time, when we touched as words do,
and held the hope that words hold.
Being as an event, we be apart, we be all one.
And we cannot unbecome.
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Inner being, being in me, other than I,
guide me, today.
I am willing to be useful, I do not have an aim,
I hold no hope of fame and recognosis,
I live to become a memory, at best,
and less than a memory, eventually.
I lie if I deny the joy I take from any sign, I see
you, thinking whys atop wherefores and how comes,
sudden otherness
occuring in a wedom framed by grand imaginations,
a new form of governing mankind, a new reason
to be defensive…
earnestly contending for pride of place, top of the pile.
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My Saturday, as all my days are now,
a day of rest,
a day of being after growing old enough, not, too;
but plenty old enough,
to reason with war,
face on face, as if, war
and I were forces of the same sort.
Ideas, grand wads of thought threads, spun
from times last chances,
grabbed with all I have to hold, huggishly,
for comforting knowledge,
I am not alone in wishing prayers were left being,
answered on reception, now, then, left being
alright. Amen.
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It is in the thousands, tens of thousands, even,
Even, everish, same old, same
balanced on the upright,
walking,
past any hope to become one of those, the greats,
not even a billion to one, the odds of me becoming,
by the time I survived, the odds were even worse,
not a chance.
I bet, I said, I bet I won,
my race already run, by now, you know,
the results are pending
review,
and then I died,
and the results were these remaining
lines you take in,
as though you heard me talking, and thought
you might
over hear and know, all the songs of us, are about you.
The most self-centered man I ever met, said
my therapist to me, as I spun dervishly on my point.
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In the hope of doing good by being ready to give account,
all my idle words wait in lines linking now to the cloud
which cannot withstand the constant collection of all we think or ask.