Poetry is symptomatic
of a disruption
of a moving and beautiful disturbance of the ordinary
which, as an artist, one seeks to the point of obsession
In such a sense, poetry is cheap.
we can imagine ourselves as being made up of moments that move us
the dip of a lash, a mobile army of metaphors, the still secret and tiny dance of evaporated hydrogen and oxygen puffed white and silver above a bay-wrapped city-scape, a blissful hour of the trickery of otherworldly morning light
To live in these moments, a life composed only of them…
In a dangerous and potent combination of moments a year or so ago, I placed faith
in something different
I was reminded of the moments when I was born
when sensation, reflection, the movements of the soul first began to stir
My reaction was realization, that this world is not a pleasant one.
The entire Earth is a screaming place.
If it were only a matter of being unnerved by disagreement, that would be easy.
But the Earth screams of deeper, darker things
of denied truths
wasted lives
misunderstood intentions
dreams left to die
deception
identities
forsaken
foregone
condemned
deprived
depraved
punished
wracked innocences
possibilities made impossible.
The poem's unfinished.
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