Tuesday, March 11, 2014

The thing about this feeling. This way this feeling, or of feeling. The thing about this is that everything becomes poetry. Or was always already poetry. Blows up.

You are oscillating so hard, so desperate, that you force everything to resonate with you. Like there is the truth. And there. And also there. Suddenly everything means. Or something.

You read Ariana Reines and weep openly. Bukowski takes a crack at you and you are still going. Untitled sonnets. Marilyn Monroe in Some Like It Hot. An enraged Facebook post. The Sunday weather report.

Is this artifice or is this everything. And/or all of the above. You don't even want to hear the word anymore, but you can't escape everywhere. Mayhaps.

Open another book. Start again.

1 comment:

  1. "Experience. Labor. These are the twin sides of the coin which when spun is neither experience nor labor, but the moment of revelation. The coin, by optical illusion, becomes a round, bright, whirling globe of life. It is the moment when the porch swing creaks gentle and a voice speaks. All hold their breath. The voice rises and falls. Dad tells of other years. A ghost rises off his lips. The subconscious stirs and rubs its eyes. The Muse ventures in the ferns below the porch, where the summer boys, strewn on the lawn, listen. The words become poetry that no one minds, because no one has thought to call it that."

    http://www.shadowdance.info/shinji/bradbury_zen_in_the_art_of_writing.html

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