Thought gives up its record, gives up its tune, turns back outward to turn back to you, leaving the thematic analysis of its outlooks and its hopes behind for another truth, returning to a rhythmanalysis of this time and its next, outside of intention and against it, abandoned to its fate however scandalous, an analysis not of poetry or daily life, no longer scanning the outworn and normal seasons, but of a rhythm interrupted and leavened by this hold, yours, held suspended by you presently bubbling up in it to engorge, by the other that you buried in its presence, arriving before its invitation and recognition as a present, originary tributary of the other in me, who, that then bubbles up and sings out blurts, cries out to reach what the others reach first made possible by you: syncopation of self in the beat of you-beat-me-to-it, just like you always did and would; a pause become aware of itself as pause; loves idea lost in being loved; saved appearances seen through in the dissipation of what appears to be true, everything cherished evaporating in dark laughter, irreparably, this faith in you, to you, this heart you hear and heard changing guard off-guard, lifetime account instant account of a life lost, last light shining right now here so unclearly, so unstilly, however, there will be more, you can bet on it, just as there had been some more before it too, just as I had come on unexpectedly like an ants roar in a mobile tomb, and so I was so worried about it too, so worried, finally by all of it for you, finally by the presence of you in this communication I couldnt count up to or match, scribbled as it is on the bent corners of these unreshapable notebooks no one could ever have seen to be retrieved, because always vanishing instantly, knowing, no, never knowing that, acknowledging that the present began anthologized without effort, and beyond human measure, archived in all its verbrannten Traurigkeit no matter how unsaddened and refreshed by listening gestures, passing the Unsightable underneath unfounded sightings in the gory and ghastly growing forlorn ether, for now the shock, now the interruption of that too-close-to-time event, that word from on high dragging to wound-fester, again and again, that now no longer comes in typical waves, that now is the constant coming of a beauty of ruins not a one of us will ever taste or hear, because too real, because no ones: the futures ours because were absent from it, the presents a memory for the future, spell it out just like that, a last truth leaving everything open, opening everything to let everything open open, as a first last real, as the first last one, as the only thing Id ever have to share with you as me, as the only thing I am and in your heart could ever feel.
Posted on: Wed, 14 Jan 2015 03:18:05 +0000
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