A tired eve and an acid day
this “new” year brings a quiet contradiction
its quite the superstition, the way
I believed I could trip and fall into
a new mode of being, of seeing
you, and the past
I cast my net and I caught things
I wish I could unhook
I’m on the hook for these hookups
and I brought things to shore but I look up
to the stars and ignore
the gasping, gulping, flailing net
that I bet the future on
and on and on I stare
at the stars until they disappear
like the sound when someone stops begging for air
and bares little resemblance to a consequence
hence the stars are replaced with light
and I pray that I might be engulfed by it
my quiet confirmation that it never really mattered
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it seems like each line naturally feeds into the next…
this poem, more than others, in its own right, was cathartic (An itch I must scratch), chaotic. the form reflected that of its own accord. one of those rare pieces that poured from me and still kept it’s synergistic form. “distilled,” I find this scene more true than the empirical experience from which it was based.
the structure of the narrative wholly reflects the nature of the piece, chaotic but begrudgingly in accordance with an interpretive structure of that which we label poetry and resignedly, tragically and ironically in accordance with order.
CHAOS->EMOTION->INTERPRETATION
to explain, “simplicity, encapsulated by cryptography and explained only by the retrieval of such universal yet repressed emotion.
empathy is not the key, but rather a sense of perverse, helpless judgement.
chaos feeds the artist, and sacrifice names him.
let your their blood be fodder, and yours be the burden of beauty.
whoa! OK…this comment seems like a poem in itself!