Mundus vult decipi
a white line
that I have been telling myself
over and over again
is a border between me and
this madness of transport
in the background
that i cannot fuzz out anymore
Beautiful image, Johnny. The poem’s good too, but sad.
Thank you, Ashley–I was thinking (and feeling?) more bittersweet acceptance, but I’ll grant these things are usually rather mixed up and often hard to differentiate. Which is why, of course, we do things like write poems…
is the ‘me’ the stem or the flower; either way it ends well in the long run
Well, hmm, I had thought it was the observer or was it the observed or was it the obverse? Either way it was more of short mosey along the roadside but it did end well.
I feel like I know this border… personally. I like this poem and I like your shot of Queen Ann’s Lace.
Thank you, Alice. I reckon you do know this place, the border between noise and quiet….
I reckon I stumble across it now and then about four in the morning. See you there?
Like ships on the night.
I think there is a strange and wonderful light in the moment when the border itself becomes a bridge between clarity and madness where we may sometimes find our poems, songs and the best part of ourselves. This is a picture of the highest quality and a poem to match.
Thank you Ron for these kind words.
Yes. I am much intrigued by edges, verges, margins. This thin skin within which we reside. The outer-most layer of our physical bodies, the outer-most layer of our brains, and again this outer-most infinitesimal layer of our tiny little ball of rock in this exceedingly, overwhelmingly gigantic universe. It is from this tiniest place of tension and friction that our creation comes from. And it is astounding that such a thing is so. It makes even our complaints, our plaints, even our deepest woes into things of wonder.
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