Tuesday, February 21, 2017
distance is not space: the internet
distance to breathe
is not a space
we give to each other:
but life we take out
life we take from
the other, bleeding out,
to circle around
old paths and patterns
self centered, in balance
with the dizzy lightness
of nothing to disturb.
we only throw food
through worm holes,
an astrophysical
relationship: paradox
and nursing this
estrangement of humans,
pornographic fragments
ruling the silent hum
of how not to say
what we will not like
and how to keep
not in touch
but out of trouble
nice, without burden,
and facing sudden risk
to meet in honesty
we will fail and retire
to a galaxy far out,
short-sightedly
floating in fish tanks.
waiting for death
we assume to live:
but this is questionable.
we know that all life
parts in black holes,
nothing and nobody
comes out to say
hello, just particles
and invisible waves
distance is not space
we give and allow,
time is not a glue
but it takes us apart
what could be presence
dies at the root,
and nobody sees
the blossoms
coming the other side.
the sound of flowers
opening from far
does not carry their scent.
although...
there is magic in poems,
it is my blood living there
as a dead thing. they are
open to interpretation, but i
know how much this gift
is a poison.
and i say:
as long as none of my legs
will be cut off, i walk the earth
as a man, dressed as a human, i am soul, spirit, earth and fire:
i don't want to be boiled in a
kettle, my essence distilled through
copper tubes by witches in reclining
chairs clapping their hands, nodding
rhythmically with the burbling steam,breathing my earthly life through their spoiled nostrils, humming a 'how nice he suffers' as if i was a frog to end in a fishsoup for degustation.
so, why publish.
i don't want to write poems, i hate all of them for wasting my life , to write instead of kissing, embrace, the sharing of days and nights: how poor.
i write, i die. i have no choice.
is it true?
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