4457. SQUELCHED

SQUELCHED
And what got squelched was the noise of a hundred
creations : the rudiments of station, the things we
sanctify with place. Walking thirty miles overland,
heading for a nothing-much-at-all, I am sequestered
in my simple blindness, this wavy coat around my head.
Were I a desert nomad, some would - for sure -
take a quaint and interesting photo of the sights they'd
seen on their travels. That, here, would include me.
-
Would they ask, however, I'd have to say : 'My visa is
not yours, and my passport is marked from another
place, a candlestick Mars, a pinpoint Jupiter far beyond
your present human imaginings. Please now, leave me be.'
-
Like the 'Man Who Fell To Earth', I too am not that far off;
I landed by a bridge, I was quickly ruined by thirst, I see
things black and white, I find absences when you think
space. But I can never die; I just absorb another location
and go gently on my way. I see this world you inhabit tries
to bury its dead. We have no such intentions; by contrast,
we let them live on - in a candlestick Mars, in a Jupiter
far beyond all other things. My manners are as
infinite as are my eyes and visions.