POINTS UNKNOWN
In a high relief, these are moments of one remove,
notable and noble, and worthy of comment
and constant too. Like a great firmament in
a deep, dark night, illumined by great brilliance
from some other, outside, force, a sudden
grand amazement hits me like a shudder.
I am not one alone but one with everything
now everywhere showing : the grand effluent
of the cosmic mist paints high the world
with its meaning. Stars now sizzle and fixate,
a reality broken by nothing. I travel the
kingly ship drawing its source away.
Like eyes, the brightness around me
lights up an otherwise barren world,
one jagged and sundered, bereft, left
to dangle in a blackened sky.
-
What is it you would have me do?
No, I have already done all that.
Marketing spheres, erasing time and bringing
things back, that would do nothing for the day;
revolving domains, broken trees, dirt in patches,
and watery streams dripping filth - what we have
made of all things is simply a bad husbandry.
Never too late, it is always too late nonetheless.
This world will end with a blink and a tremble.
Twisting consciousness back upon itself, a
new turn will simply recreate the old. We are,
again, held at bay. We wait, in shackles, this better,
new day. I cannot guarantee the light nor the
effort, but I ask for your forbearance.
-
Try drying tears, and you will see they do not dry.
They manage to stay and moisten the eye long past
the occasion of their coming. We are so much like that:
commingling within ether and air, dogs barking, clouds
at play, wistful mountainsides watching out. Everything
new is old again? Yes, yes, the backward passage of time.
-
Bundle me not with your old memories.
They are faded and gone, to be filled with
a solace not to be understood. I peer back from old
photos, only to see your shaded eyes : like the doctor
on that Gatsby billboard, that passage of a Fitzgerald
moment, nothing is what it seems and we all lay down
now in the great valley of ashes. Our own though it be,
a valley of ashes nonetheless.
In a high relief, these are moments of one remove,
notable and noble, and worthy of comment
and constant too. Like a great firmament in
a deep, dark night, illumined by great brilliance
from some other, outside, force, a sudden
grand amazement hits me like a shudder.
I am not one alone but one with everything
now everywhere showing : the grand effluent
of the cosmic mist paints high the world
with its meaning. Stars now sizzle and fixate,
a reality broken by nothing. I travel the
kingly ship drawing its source away.
Like eyes, the brightness around me
lights up an otherwise barren world,
one jagged and sundered, bereft, left
to dangle in a blackened sky.
-
What is it you would have me do?
No, I have already done all that.
Marketing spheres, erasing time and bringing
things back, that would do nothing for the day;
revolving domains, broken trees, dirt in patches,
and watery streams dripping filth - what we have
made of all things is simply a bad husbandry.
Never too late, it is always too late nonetheless.
This world will end with a blink and a tremble.
Twisting consciousness back upon itself, a
new turn will simply recreate the old. We are,
again, held at bay. We wait, in shackles, this better,
new day. I cannot guarantee the light nor the
effort, but I ask for your forbearance.
-
Try drying tears, and you will see they do not dry.
They manage to stay and moisten the eye long past
the occasion of their coming. We are so much like that:
commingling within ether and air, dogs barking, clouds
at play, wistful mountainsides watching out. Everything
new is old again? Yes, yes, the backward passage of time.
-
Bundle me not with your old memories.
They are faded and gone, to be filled with
a solace not to be understood. I peer back from old
photos, only to see your shaded eyes : like the doctor
on that Gatsby billboard, that passage of a Fitzgerald
moment, nothing is what it seems and we all lay down
now in the great valley of ashes. Our own though it be,
a valley of ashes nonetheless.
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