... an intimate journey...
before you are even past the end of the driveway,
there's something crawling rustling around
there's something crawling rustling around
over by the garden.
heading down the street,
past signs of linearity
trying to impose itself.
another street.
another message.
an order?
message from god?
zen dancing lesson?
a forest from a satellite?
moss on stone.
fractals.
geometry.
even a face of stone fades.
his mum must have been so sad.
was the sun shining like this
when laid him in that grave?
that tree must have been very small.
we are all going to die.
i will die.
but not today, i think.
today i'm walking down these tracks.
the stone these tracks are laid on
was a red river once.
decay is as interesting as growth.
they are inseperable...
interchangeable.
i remember those signs from when i was a kid.
i guess people either need ice or they don't.
i will die one day.
you will die one day.
it seems strange that we share something
so inimate and profoundand never speak of it.
i've never seen one before with no graffiti on it.
none.
it looks naked to me.
it looks like an abandoned Futurist installation.
it looks like something Stalin might have approved.
things only ever almost seem to fit together.
i'm not sure if that's a bipolar thing or what.
-30-
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1 comment:
What if bipolar is just another lens through which to view life, like "ethnic" or "emotional" or "rational" or "logical"? If that is the case, I am grateful for your window on the world, living and dying.
We all will die. Inescapable truism. Question is, what will we do while we were here? What is our contribution to the Beauty of all that is? Did we take time to be the moss or the bright sun in the sky? Do we leave our markings for future generations to wonder about, like the river rocks? Or do we expend all our energy on scrubbing clean our graffiti, pretending that life is a pristine Corbusian Utopia, free of beautiful, messy complexity?
Thank you for your window onto the world. It is fraught with humanity.
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