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porcupine
USA
193 Posts |
 Posted - Aug 11 2009 : 6:57:37 PM
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The hills rolled on everywhere and many a direction and probably all, and I was there amongst it all weeping silently in the fresh and ever changing conundrum of life untold.
Passing up and down in the largely unexplored woodlands where you could feel yourself become almost wild again and start questioning all that jadedness that builds up like rust in the pipes of the human heart.
For the longest time, that was all I did, I went in and out, and thought of my sickness, my supposed madness that I doubted at the best of times and at the worst wondered, if it was simple laziness, or if it was in fact the world and everyone in it that was crazy and that it was just my honesty and kindness that had repeatly left me with short straw, arranged for by doctors to be drugged indefinitely, any attempt at revealing or living a life based in truth shot down and retold to incorporate some kind of psychosis. But never the less, I was who I was and took to nature again and again, read of the native peoples whose culture seems to be like a dream grown by anyone with a fair amount of imagination, who can hear the plants speaking and understand the words of the deer. A new persona began to grow, organic and unstraightened by the combing of hair or repression of said 'system'. But when I'd return home, always frowned upon, oh well, we've all got our problems I sighed, and sometimes what can we do but hold them out to others, glaring with the conviction of the holy murderers, the crusaders. I did my best to cause no ruckus, but to help those who came to me seeking it. A healer, life and death on my shoulders, it could have been only eight seconds, or it could have been eight thousand years that I spent in that thought cycle, my friends all far away and perhaps fearing me while I built up on my own small castles of hope and love and ideal worlds where there was no distinction, only a joyful stilling paradox which had no name but halfway out of humor I began to affectionately call Pomo. Emotions swirled and as the artist that I was it was most beautiful, everything seemed to bridge further in and further to the deepest mystery that could be spoken of to the right folks at the right time with seemingly alchemical results, the conversation, the poetics of it all, and nothing more, this was the point of the pen that life pulled.
And it was not that they feared me, but perhaps that we were ill suited for eachother, I've always been looking for one as interested in the unknowns as me, who could keep up with the rambling and the artistic posturing, to a degree similar to the beats, because it seemed that was the only place I was going, and slowly, like a cow goes to the mountains. But perhaps in the community as it reached out to me and me into it I found the spirits who led me to see once more, that this was all just a smaller sphere, this was fate as it is called, dna as it is renamed, we who still live in the womb of the universe, and pass our time in ignorant and sincere expressions, like cute stumblings in the belly of none other than ourselves, reversed. How beautiful I said, writing whatever praise that I could, though I hadn't really lived at all, and I remembered all the realizations of the past and it came to me that this would only be the beginning of my adventures.
Adventures, yes adventures into the known and unknown, out of the home, cast away from support, would I curl up like a bug and die, returning to the earth, like a seed unsown, only to be the sowing of other seeds, or would I blossom? Picked by the train station flower girl and spark the romance that taught the whole world to love again, and be alright. Who really knows? These poems are small smiles and thank you's and hushed and calming animal chatter, they keep it all in perspective, if only for a moment, but a moment worth all time. |
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hills
