The Generative Nexus

One scraggly rooster picking his way through the roots of winter lilac. And rain, and rain clouds, and a slush that is neither snow nor rain but gray itself in freezing clumps. Gray as a condition of the weather, yet interiorly - still sick, still tired, still unable to put the sentences together - one is gray as well, whatever that means. You can't ask a crow anything because they are joyful liars by nature, knowing full well that truth is whatever they say it is, because at that precise moment, what else could it be? Anyway, my appetite is for words primarily, not information. Also, the generative nexus between word and image matters more than either word or image. Relationship is causative but also effective, according to the many collectives binding us. We are not here to learn but to recognize, can I say it that way? Hence you, hence us. Hence poetry, or at least this poem, not unlike that pile of wood out back which I have never get around to burning. Fire is an art I have studied closely which renders me not masculine but good to have around when it's cold. You can't insist on cardinals. You can only feel what you feel when - briefly or otherwise - they appear.