There is no voice to find. Poets flit between long-past and will-continue poetry. Some poets can do "believe" because they have a rule book: Language Plays, or something like that. Surrounded by mirrors, I hear Past and Future copulate. Why must you work so fast? Knowing that something will aways be missing, I love that folks trouble with thinking all the time. Desparate for wholeness, let's be content with this moment of unity.
"Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don't be afraid; you are worthmore than many sparrows." (Matthew 10:29-31)
They belong. Yes, never doubt that. But they fear people. They crack. I've heard it before. Art happens without the space it takes up. It must be better and worst-- designed to appeal to anyone. Say whatever you want. They're all out there--lost children. It's a free culture. The world resists resolution. It doesn't always make sense.
Katie's Saturday shadow capers over the cattle-razed meadow. With every leap and wiggle, her yellow jumper pockets rattle pine cones, a tiny mole's skull, twigs, stones, and shards of blue eggshell. At long last, she settles to rest in a nest of black-eyed Susans by the culvert. Grubby fingers rub grass-stained knees, as she ponders new Nikes caked with dung then turns to watch a solitary Jersey, its jaw working round and round-- chew, chew, chewing its cud. "Moo to you, Mama Cow." Then, with sudden, wide-eyed-rabbit grace, she scrambles to her feet, jumps the ditch, maneuvers the barbed wire fence, and bolts up the gravel road.
There are no lilacs-- purple-sweet after the rain, no fields of fireflies, no grand oaks that bend to drink from giddy creeks. No big old barns, painted-red, brighten the horizon. But, there are cats-- foul screams in the dark, scat under the bougainvillea, and terra cotta-tiled roofs that swarm to devour cactus and creosote bush. Shrouded, the distant mountains choke on the sweat of the oasis. There is no going back and no escape.
I pop in today. Everything looks normal. I leave, wander around the net, and when I come back my "Bright and Shiny Poets" links are missing. Damn. So I go inside settings and check, and the links are still there. Hmmm. I come back to this page and the links are up again. But NOW when I click on any of my bright and shiny poets links I find a big ugly yellow feeds box slapped on the top of their blogs. Who the hell thought that one up? Idiots. Off with their heads! I hope I'm dreaming...
::two minutes later:: It's back to normal.
Since you're here anyway, might as well have some FUN.
Rhapsody in shards of glass-- (Hail Mary, full of grace) Rainbow razors sing and sting, spray the lady, spay the lady on her knees in disgrace. Unholy rhapsody-- flecks of foam flashdance, scold and scream of disaster in her craft, of deceit in washboard dreams. Rhapsody scrubs mud, scrapes wads of gum from pews where lies breed like flies. Above the fishwife floats, wrapped in sweet blue rhapsody, (Hail Mary, full of grace). She holds the holes, owns the whole, molds the air-- almost. Distant rhapsody shapes the affairs of men (the Lord is with thee) and the lady afraid to remain alone.
It's difficult to mind the path. Divide a monk by ten laymen to find your ten percent. We are the same five elements. We are forty sleepless nights. Feeble. Ferocious. Brilliant. Boisterous. Puffed up. Pious. Ignorant. Vexatious. Arrogant. Useless. Liars and loons, lapdogs, landlubbers and luminaries, right and wrong, we are the same. A dozen orange lilies, eight pearls and a chunk of coal-- we are the same, clinging; we are the same, letting go. Devoted to distraction, thinking thinking thinking, driven and drowning, gasping and grasping at air, still suffering, still minding the words: love your enemies like yourself, I don't have to have a story. We are the same.