An incomplete list of things taken lying down

There are certain things that, despite my knowing they exist, I cannot imagine—such as the beginning of a river.

Man can name his every animal. There is little use for a concept which cannot be named. Understanding is the flower of utterance.

To see is to leave, in fever, all we thought we shared behind. To see another in passing and not to follow for a time is leading our own leashes. See this trap is that our lives, when joined, read weak. But—each—we bottom into decapitation.

Typically what frightens me these days is also what grudges these trysts for coffee, and only in the wanderlust of the afternoon snooze does it begin to bite: What else will people do in the absence of easy good?

After all, whose blame do you belong to in your own recline? And me too. Why write a poem whose germ has an answer I could instead spend my time moving in amongst the world, finding out?

Each gentle pull to stay afloat comes costly. But poetry is a naïve machine, if not exactly a schematic for answering questions. The difference between a room full of people and a room filled with people is precisely slim to none. But what is an answer if not a retreat into the world we already know?

And how does healing happing, if not as a flower?

An incomplete list of things taken lying down

There are certain things that, despite my knowing they exist, I cannot imagine—such as the beginning of a river.

That from the very beginning we've been giving ourselves up to the inconceivable over our cosmic survivor's guilt.

That we reasoned gods to tease our luck, to keep us objects in the cosmic sentence.

Typically, decapitation.

Propoganda and the hard truths.

When it’s just there, why not do some dishes? Why not read? Why would I ever idle, when in the abstract there’s so much I want to do? It’s not a question of courage or failure or shame or uncertainty. What the abstract fails to take into account is the draw of nothing. The bliss of a closed bright sky. Knowing there is nothing you can do, and yet. Though you can see how words quickly fail to explain. And this is part of it. Yes, it’s necessary.

See, the days aren’t getting away from me. I’m letting them go.

I, for one, hate the word slaughter. It is as a single, short pass of a blade. An indiscriminate constant of injury, knowing no bounds but the instant glance in the other direction. A simple severance of the big trust. A guided and thoughtful prose.

Man can name his every animal. There is little use for a concept, which cannot be named. Understanding is primary—but primary is nothing without that secondary importance of utterance. After all, man is nothing without a family.

What do you do with language that isn’t meant for a pedestal? It’s not that these aren’t deserving of poetry. In fact, thank god that poetry would be valued accordingly. Thank god these words are only worth their breath.

But I’ll bite.

While the youth ride bikes to bars, you won’t make yourself known.

What frightens me these days is what people will do in the absence of opportunity to do something good.

There are only two shades of everything in life. And it’s for the next generation to evaluate in this regard.

But would you begrudge me a coffee? Whose blame do you belong to in your own recline?

The fact is—there was never a single person who was given work.

Each gentle pull to stay afloat comes costly. We all die, and it’s supposed only to be that we are great men that keeps our minds off it. Maybe I’m wrong though. Maybe it is that death is only our discovery—the mystery that it is, the fascination it holds. A vector, yes. In which case it is only our direction and length that makes us infinitely distinct.

How does healing happen, if not as a flowering? (Outgrowth pours over.) A room full of people.

How does poetry sound, if not naïve, endemic? (Reserved for a cause.) A room filled with people.

But for the great semantic truth. How much a last impression matters. Sometimes we forget that lasting knowledge isn’t scooped or communicable. That we are old men one day, and this world wasn’t meant for any present on it. We are but a reach into the familiar. Our dogs frighten. But when I crawl into bed to find you sleeping, what use have I for writing unless it helps me pass the time happily with you?

Sometimes we forget things even as we lay them. But I have to believe they all forget me if not forgive me each abandonment.

Free poetry will never be as good as free bread, as important as free love, nor as desired as free money. Still, it survives me through the day. And, meek and easy, it will survive them all.

It is, after all, the pleasure of exile.