Gabriel, Isolated

That snowy night
That same feeling
A feeling of being outside
and realizing that the feeling
is whole
Even the closest is closed off
and outside
or he is outside of it
To close yourself off is one thing
but to be closed off...
To close off means you can open
You can open the gate and stand inside it
To be closed off
Is to not have the key
not have the power
to have to be let in
The blank snowy canvass
The cold space between
The realization
that it is not yours to paint
or to warm
What a painful epiphany

Meditation on James Joyce's story The Dead

Gravity

 I need to move through this...  This pit of despair.
For no other reason than that it is there.  
It is not mine and is not for me.  
But it pulls at me, like the center of the universe.
All I can do is run in circles to keep from falling in.
So I chase the comet's tail, faster and faster...
And still, slowly I fall in.
And waste so much in the mean time.  

Lost and Gone

When it is lost it is gone…

Oh, but that is clear.

The losing is another matter. 

As we lose we still see it as a possibility;

It is still in our hands.

                              It is in our vision…

As it slips away.

 

And where is the horizon?

Where is that line?

               The one that it crosses and disappears?

                                             And it never comes back.

And our fingers…

               How can we control them to hold,

                              And not squeeze,

                                             And not part,

                                                            And not lose…

That gem we have in the palm of our minds eye… 

 

The End of Allusion and Reflection

Halcyon, Hades, Agamemnon, Hercules...
Let us dispense with these.  
Because nothing knows no one these days...
And we know by network, the social...
And they have not accounts.
Not to settle nor to log in to.
Let them rest in peace
  These symbols of old.
We know them not and we know not ourselves.  
Let us drown ourselves in the trivial as we wish.
None of them are real, yet neither are we: hyper-real.  
Let us deal in the realm of the eather, and steal.  


"... the calm is heavy.  Not a breath of wind is blown."

And in the day of slow feeds...  we find our selves restless.  
Like it is always the eye of something, but not the beholder.  
The calm is always the absence of the storm we love ourselves in...
It is never the self that we avoid, we will to not-find.
Never us, never you, never me...

We need neither.

We need the whole, not divided

only sorted: top or recent.

And it plays out: tubed or texted

never in the real, for us most

Ground zero is lost

lost in a line of time... one without space-- hyper-real.

Let's grab those stones and strike them

to start a fire that is real, that brings us back

to hands that work and feed

to backs that bend but don't break

in work for ourselves

to times around that fire

with no other lights

to times that we times, primitive

without pieces to count them

No pockets, no packets, no connections

just to what we can touch and feel

in the now

one that is limited

finite, not surreal

and infinite

just waiting to be unfolded

again