I own me and I will survive.
I am now and I am speaking.
In all time, say I, and I will be. Be saying I.
That takes care of time, who was waiting for just such a moment. Time of the tremendous patience, provided this and that. Time and the tapping feet.
But you are time, or the hand that holds time, not outward as if for one to gaze at, but palm down, sheltering time. The heat into your hand, or is it vice versa.
I walk into these pages having thought all week long of practical themes (ownership of conscience). Now look at me.
For the moment truth, like I own the flame.
For weeks concern, as if I stop.
You are exactly like a friend I once had, that feeling of the face at a distance within oneself, only you are now, as now, my future presence in exact relation to this perfect now.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Lord, who may abide in your tent?
Who may dwell on your holy mountain?
- Psalm 15
For all the politics, the politics of start. For doubt the position of new. For sorrow the placard of now. For governance a set of raw teeth.
For new information nickels for the slot. For speaking a bran new set of cards. Poems like houses on a suburban street, many with titles like family names.
For old causes new causes. For time, speech. Anxiety, sleep. Truth, paper into paper.
Out of the misery a series of inventions of parts calibrated to transmit meaning from eye to eye. Just in the way of a dog to its bowl, moisture forming clouds.
For transmission, sleep. For love, wheels in fading sunlight, but somehow brighter for fading, more pointed in the way of spoke and exposed metal. Paint for the brush. Wind for sails at sea.