articulation of it. From my
world I jump through
my thoughts to what most
expresses my love
in the "outside" that my heart
belongs what to do with words.
My mind, if that's it
discriminates & verbs
become something I can say.
The world of floods.
My whole body
becomes indistinguishable
from that world.
The baggage good & bad that comes
all that exists
in the things filtering through.
I would not altogether trust
every day and every hour for
the writing of poetry.
Principles and the inner life
are alibis the moment
they cease to animate
external and everyday life.
Walter Benjamin wrote,
"A writer who does not teach
other writers teaches nobody."
My lessons in a grey society
would be wearing the skins
of myself and the ghost of yourself
seeing the messages that give
them Time.
Thoughts just barely themselves
before they too change.
Machines of thought do not exist.
Reproductions do.
It must not turn
into an object of consumption.
Nothing exists inside the marketplace.
Buried in work. Is that diligence
Central in men and women? Did anyone,
without external reference, ever find
peace in poems? Has that elegance
headed "the ink's desperation"?
An immaculate imagery
must be a fiction. It is
time to choose. The lights burning
out
pull down the shades. Not metaphor.
Tend to your business.