Post by artolmaeus on Sept 8, 2021 22:29:48 GMT -6
then, it is that I am filled with want, and I want
but I am not in love with want, or what I want
nor am I in love with love, because, love, is that word
that is so deviled that it is no longer a full ham
and given more mass by mustard or mayo
or even something minced into oblivion
that elusive butterfly two fingers away from the hand
fully outstretched and always reaching
I run with the wind in my nose, the air on my tongue
with the sun on my head, the corona of heat rising
from my form on a cold days light, should I be the radiator
and feel, something in the movement, something moves me
the lightness of my hands as if they are lifting from my side
and I am falling after the feathers come loose from their beeswax comb
and the strings let me be taken by gravity
and I never hit the ground, or my point of origin
I want the copyright for a new original sin, I will steal some old ones
and under my shirt is a den of theives holding onto this moment
breathing, breathing air or prana or some vispassura, whatever they label it
I need to breathe, I need my breath taken, I want that, to have it stolen for a moment
to feel that deficit and feel that moment in all my body, the one element so primal
I am not in love with oxygen, but I will use it hard, hardly and harder
until it abandons me and gravity takes my elements as I leave what falls around me
and wonder then, if I will take it all in, see someone then, take a trip
or be taken, and keep wondering from all the wonders collectively painted
on the canvasses of hope and desperation or consideration, if marveled by
all the stars in the Milky Way that sprawl in such a scatter and fill way
and I am not in love with the moon, nor the stars, but I feel them
sometimes, solitary and alone, separate but in large quantity and a crowd nonetheless
and it is this wanting that makes me lonley, and having does not give me fullness
but to feel for this fleeting run, some collision or collusion or intrusion
just that it does not leave me alone, for a while, with me a while
when my hands are not empty, and I hold someone wanting my hold
and holding me because they want to hold, me, yes, even me,
and I could wrap the night around me and wish it be my eternal darkness and warmth
or the daylight the same, because I am not in love with the moment
To call it love, to call it some sense of belonging, to even call it mine,
but to expect it to exist, like some momentuous miracle that could define the simple desire
of how I want to feel, all the time, like some skipping fool
for sometimes, the fools of this world, they are happy in their folly
and we all die alongside them, wise and alone, or gullible or taken
some Lilliputian tying down the giant, at least when it sleeps and I give it a score
and it gives me a scare, because, I have held it there
and I am not in love with it, or this, or that
I am in love that I am, and that you are, when you are aming with me
and this aming is pretty damned cool and I cannot explain the simple mechanics
of prescence, or more, or less, or nakedness, or bond or touch
sure, it is simple, but it simply does not happen every moment
and when I don't try to make it anything, it can be what it is on its own
and there, I experience, but also my own flow, my own connection to this give and take
and I won't call it love, because it is more necessary than a word
I don't think we are the subjects, but, I know we are the verbs, we are the mediums of the action
the wires in which the current flows and at some of the connections, sparks fly,
but we are the amperes, and are subject to experiencing
because how can we be that which laughs, when, laughter is required of us if it is to be experienced
not that we can hear it, but have it,
and I do love laughter, and joy, and love, but like magnets, they don't do much alone
repel or attract, it is the flux fields that make things go, or go away
and we cannot be objects in motion until acted upon by another object in motion
we are the motion itself, something miraculous and sometimes it feels common
and sometimes, it feels like some ancient repetition that cannot be escaped
and, maybe we should stop trying to escape it
but be the falling happening when we find some objectification in that
as if the verb we are, enters a direct object
and somehow finishes a sentence, I am not sure we even started
but we were started in and sometimes, after the period,
it is the next sentence we start, we might not be sure of what will flow next
if we flow, as long as we flow, words find their place
and take us all, somewhere, where we have been and deny, and deny we have ever seen
and have never seen, never felt and sometimes, we need to not even speak
because, as the action that we are, the verb that we be,
being in that action is more than enough, it is everything
and we can never write about it and make it worth as much
as being there in the first place.....so then, how does the poet write
and not live
feel and not give, fight and surrender all at the same time
yield and be yielded to
there are no traffic lights in the flow, there's nothing like it
oh bring me the inverse of my isomorphic constant
as often, I forget, I am the butterfly I am chasing.....