My journals are becoming an interlocking puzzle for the insane.
The titanic whimsical pop-up book for the gods.
But my confused genius (I'm sure I just need to fix a few broken wires)
can only imagine to make pieces of time, not the words. At some point
it becomes too much about the medium, and that is inexcusable.
No life should be so linear, even through the spasm of unexpecteds.
It is on paper, as it is in blood --
a collectanea of moments to be gathered up like kindling in the arms, then
tossed hard into an empty room to fall, break, leave shards of frozen
time on top of one another.
This scene is to exist on its own (the unread poem does not exist,
or does not become?) or to be happened upon like a nest
fallen to the forest floor?
Like an installation at the Walker Art Center:
"Still Life of the Poet's Mind"
(better than 92% of what resides there).
Sometimes, when I imagine myself as an old man,
this scene is what I picture. An entire German
hillside of books, pages. The scrawl staining the white
paper is the morning dew, and I am an abandoned castle
(mentioned briefly in books on the region)
sitting with my knees drawn to my chest. I am smiling
in the center of it all, assured of my place in the local
history and topology of a people.
e p i l o g u e
And plopped in the middle of this diorama
God himself shall tell me to freeze.
He will place a sign at my feet written in some ethereal ink
(secretly I will know its components, but I will hold my tongue)
and what it will say, though He will not know I know,