If I were writing from a place
that held some ascension,
if I were watching my words
lead me out of turmoil’s hell-bent,
if I were numb
in just one elegant full circle way,
if there were a frame of reference
as a haven for helpfulness,
just some simple hoops
I found as necessary
but also eventually unavoidable
to jump through,
just some purpose
as a manner of distraction
that inadvertently exposed
an edge to peel back,
some inner dialogue
that I could abruptly walk in upon,
some solution
offering adequate distance
yet with a sense of repositioning,
but, not really
not any single thing
stands out that way,
not a grasp seems that obvious,
not a blanketing thought
to comfort for what disheartens,
no forest for the trees comes to mind,
no real emotion of clarity
trumps this house of chatter,
no lucid point to ponder
staring me down from the mirror.
This is like
a war correspondent’s
dawn description:
“it is bleak, it is extensive.”
Nothing less than coma inviting like kind,
if at all.
Possibly deductions to come
upon further inspection.
Substantial engagement
has happened unexpectedly.
No one is left
to interview or correspond.
There are no watchers who remain.
Nothing of a neutral nature
is reporting
upon first inspections.
But like a burned forest,
which just hours ago,
was an inferno
heated with intent and pursuit,
this is now
of a scorching and charred parade.
This of itself
does not know the story
but continues to smolder
in a darkened display,
single-mindedly of it self.
It searches the skies
for light and conversion,
accepts these circumstances
as workable and working,
proceeds with the simple tasks
of existence.
As debris,
may live or may die.
It has no concerns
to alter the approach.
It lives towards replenishment
and prosperity.
No story or account tells of itself
fully into its death.
Other means say
by their living with and around,
by where they are their livingness.
And so it is like this as here.
Occasions will come
that clear the air.
Bouquets of distraction
will be offered.
Momentums and mementos
will resurface
as if it was all riding
in a vaster ocean
than can be consumed
by this hurt or pain.
Mountains reveal their lives
as seabeds.
Deltas have proudly come
from afar.
The wind has no natural enemy
and in other ways,
is eventually befriended.
And water seeks
its own familial embrace
towards level ground
and churn-dancing.
Are these as observations
my role models?
Are these as metaphors
my friends?
Are these as words to describe
my personal angels?
Is this as my brain
my eternal concubine?
Is this as my soul
an artist come to cleanse me?
What will become
of this as recognition?
Who of us will be left
who is standing as one?
Is genius harnessed
like an oxen,
laboring towards intelligence
only by domestication?
Why is a measure
of 'from here to there'
leveraged to look like
'from here to there',
as if step-by-step
and not the leap
nor simultaneity
nor the oneness essential in all?
The sacred cut as signature
is also in the frame.
And whatever is holding
that frame,
if pulled back,
may come into view.
Whose hands typed this?
What arms as bystanders
in contribution?
Where from,
does this voice gain sound?
What ear hears
towards pronunciation,
that holds this altogether,
that it proceeds
in the absence
of self-conscious approval?
Is it small or is it very large,
to be like this
and coming from out of frame?
Does it secrete
or subtly overwhelm?
Why do I intuitively retrieve
when there is a fire concealed
but smoke and smell
are the snitches?
Why does confirmation come
when no question appeared
to be asked?
Is this a beacon
from beyond intention?
Is this the acting out
as triviality is in code?
In the face of
a deeper
and more extensive means,
all I can do may be only anointing.
What I can't know first hand
but gives back to me
as feelings that live,
that bear the burden
of both sentience and belief,
for I am not
who acts out as my feel,
who consume me
as this clean burn
of this fire concealed within.
And I, as the me who wanders
now across the oblivion
composed of us
as the war correspondent.
And upon daylight's inspection,
am trapped in the coma
of sensibility,
am obliged to commentary
as if smoke tells the story
of other dimensions
that also live and die
in their procession across the now.
And for me, coming to,
besides gasping for a next breath
and fueling oxygen to the brain,
what other fertileness of the heart
genuinely seeks light unceasingly
from within
these circumstances as my means?
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