a true teacher starts his student to do something and doesn't know where it's going i want to, and begin, true poets lead no one unawares it is nothing other than awareness that poets that is, creators of all sorts seek. they do not display their art so as to make it appear real; they display the real in a way that reveals it to be an art. something necessary, no. only possible. and wherever he ends up, that is, when he decides to stop and locate himself he will be there, having begun about to begin.
i am listening to the way the stones eat next to each other under me, my sound of stepping. i am confused by the red echo of the many dots on the green carpet, measled there looking at me as my pupils are trying to slip away noiselessly to branches, or grass, somewhere green then dart back unnoticed - quick before the magnet meets me, of their eye sockets, telling come, come out into the tumbling gears and working cogs of being interested in sex - join us here! the white fields demand the red veins to extract, then! a shoot at the low of my back as i am patting the ground, my alien proboscis exposed to the onlooking two satellites. i recognise these space machines, but do not know how to impress buttons into them without covering up the holes. i am listening to the way the stones sit next to each other under me, quiet. i am feeling now the surface of the planet just as starlight thumbs across it like turning a page, but for the countlessth time, the writing has not changed. i am seeing the starlight park its pats of assurance on the shoulders of cliff faces, brushing away eroding tears. i am listening to the way the stones wait next to each other under me - what are you waiting for? tell, tell! i, crossing, try, look me no longer at.
cleverly arranged lightning, three little pockets of bird hanging from it, exceedingly beautiful in their wait
for closed sound shurikens inside bricks inside pylons that hold up the bridges who wait
as people in pairs of socks (sliding doors opening out as sockets) tremor, their lip friction shaking the suspenders/
before they can know; a tumble takes a shadow, napes it to the wiring for the beaks to come pick at to undo (fervently) the knots in the absence of light.
Herewhere started with a shout of bright thenthereweres. Tomorrow is a Sunday out of the Bi ble and men's ends are going to press on pews dividing up duty in to concerns caught in cried-out candlesticks clenched.
clenched paper droughts, this is. even though ink connects seas to mouths, the fingerdrift that traces through continents is mis sing
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Thank you for your presence and readership. And upon leaving, may you take a pocket of stillness with you, and a smile within, to share with everything.
