May 4 by The Running Son
The comma. no period. Break, a line up. here. ok. ok. and enough.
The crafting of smaller poems is an activity, a mind event that calls all the wild and free-breeding idea energies into service and everything becomes quiet for a time. You could hear a vowel drop.
The idea that forms, sometimes, is a chemical reaction of energetic violence, a ripple, or a wake sent out, informing and rolling through layer after layer of celestial crusts, crystal, and refracting, sending a normal beam into color explosions that stir the gods.
Dangerous business for brash egos.
Dangerous business for desperates that grasp out, flailing limbs with numb fingers stuttering for purchase. Dangerous business for men without wings flying toward the sun like it is an old friend.
Danger, like corners and sharpness. Heat that makes a hard ring around the fingerpad: the child sees the burner and makes contact, curious. The rings, the warm red of the stove burner, and it’s roundness, and to touch it is to know this thing. The finger– the hand, jerks– and displaces air and space and is held up before huge child-eyes. The finger pulses and no warning would have registered in the child-mind but the touching and the voice of too real reality, too hot, throbbing, all the vastness and questions vanishing, then re-emerging and recombining to form a universal direction, a symbol like an arrow, many beams of of light merging and shooting down to the event horizon of red and pain and wide eyes.
Then, young eyes realize. The finger, the stove. The many many rings. The center, the finger point, the point of connection. The light shatters into a million points, dispersing evenly into an atmosphere of law and orderly thought– Understanding. The child understands.
Bad punctuation. run on and on. No comma, and no place for these sins or omissions in the world of proper articles and easy streaming levity and playful imaging and prose.
Here, I will leave my mistakes of value and bad punctuation and character to the gods that judge the jots ant tittles. They have there conclave, and I have the English language that is written, then drawn up into the eye, and there explodes, itself, from mere concept, to a new union with the great Mind, making sense once it hits the waters edge of that River. Periods are not aloud in that place.