Nothing more than abstract ornament, explanations and discussions keeping us to ourselves; we were too petty for anything else. God and Spirit, man and God again: no insight into the common denominators.
Stupidity categorized the crews taking over. In Canada, one was reduced to waiting; at best, you sent yourself notes (not poems) hoping they would stay closed, or fall open revealing all upon arrival.
You are lost either way. Death enters your life: a troubadour strolling through the provincial town. Each gesture of government singing the unwanted guest to bed, who is finishing the last bite of food.
One brought no plans for conversation, issuing invitations in the dark he slips from his clothes. The livery stark amusement, leaving only the arc of a streetlamp which constellates: the hard vistas of distant expectation.
”If all the reader is looking for in a poetry anthology are the poetic ramblings of someone trying to impress with their command of language or a gently rolling stream of consciousness then this probably isn’t it; but for poignant and thought provoking insight and new ideas, one would be hard pressed to do better than Dean Baker’s ‘Silence Louder Than A Train.”
Of course there’s no such thing, speaking chronologically. There’s interruption, the stopped clock phenomenon where you see differently than what is actually going on: saccading to history, for instance. This would explain all those instances sweet and good where in a rage they call for annihilation in order to self-sustain the mechanism of what only you are allowed to know as true.
The idiocy of fascism, the great crowd determining the realistic. The martyrs and the saints. But then religion itself does not claim to envision anything like time foregone.
The event is happening now. Much the same way my cat sits on my desk studying forever by lamplight, for the enlightenment: so much for fun and entertainment.
Thus determineth the sacred and the vows. Meow, says Buddha. Ow, says Christ. Hello, I say to you in celebration of speech therapy also known as poetry in these ancient days.
Love’s wasted on you I can hear you say or sing, almost attempting to make a myth, to shelve a self unshelved finally; a trick of the light, the rhythmic click of heels and toes lifting off and balancing when you, with the beauty of the rose, refuse the need for more than company, controlled by the need denied.
Oh you can’t fool me in your smothered lies, the nasty entity, the uncoupled repetition you’d tell to other men as you quote me endlessly; blind against the borrowing of adoration, and a smile upraised by lips which rise to fall perfectly: absent memory, absent guile, absent the moonlit mile on leaves scattered from a mind
Convinced most that what it takes as truth must be some sweet design meant for you, in your ordered universe where we stand aside.