Tuesday, July 15, 2014

The Unexplored Interior

Did I mean burgundy? A beggarly inclination perhaps. I was distracted when she came. Also, the fawn's skull glistened in light rain and it made me sad. At two a.m. I breathe cool air at the window and whisper names that otherwise are left unsaid.

What do I mean when I say "more than words can say?" We are all finding our way, is what nobody seems to want to accept. In my dream you are strong but still want me to call. There are limits to imagination maybe? Pumping gas, one stands and stares north and wonders about all the things that didn't happen, and won't, or maybe won't.

Days of rain give way briefly to sun. Bluets in the cemetery mean stop and give attention for Christ's sake. Red is God while blue is God's home and purple is the hurt I feel without either. Townes Van Zandt steadies me before the unexplored interior. Is there such a thing as too late?

Chaos attends inaction. Wordiness is refuge but poems are white stones. Remember that publishing and creating are different, that one is extension and the other commerce, and be guided accordingly. Crows pick the mown hayfield, reminding me that we all have to eat, but we don't have to call it eating. Emily Dickinson turns away at the door and it's okay darling, it's more than okay.

No comments:

Post a Comment