Lest we forget….
…where we are…
“If you do something in the spirit of non-achievement, there is a good quality in it. So just to do something without any particular effort is enough.” Shunryu Suzuki To make something of these times I must make something so I will find a frame in which to nail my thoughts. I cannot beat this lone silence and I cannot take this seedless greening anymore, this yearning growth that knows only down and in, only dragging my thoughts into the night where I cannot find them though I remember having them, remember how they felt if not how they looked, remember them close and warm, and thought them somehow grand or at least telling at the time I barely had them, but now? Now I barely have them even less. Now I am not sure if I have them or if they have me. Now they are lost in their own depths, swimming silently in the rolling black medium of their making. Now they haunt me in their bare being and unmake me and swim through me and I will make nothing of them.
(A bit late...more on the cinquain sonnet here) Winter Madness Under the streetlights, the blocks go on forever beneath the leaden sky. In this city, streets seem somehow longer, straighter in the winter night, lonelier than the steam from sewers. Madness belongs to the night, to the filling of empty lanes with the walls of words.
When night falls for the bones, Nothing comes from the dark, Nothing goes into the light and the marrow burns on its own. The tunnel bends to its own demise and turns in its cold sack as the sun dies and the skies close down their colors. They drown us in the hues of someone else's nightmares while our own forgotten dreams lie down in the grass and all we can do is lie down with them and smell it coming like we smell our own sweat and wait for the rain to wash it all away. From the darkness, from the depths, a crystalline air vibrates our structured souls until they shatter into light while the bones beat and rattle within us, playing us like a single drum.