April 3 by The Running Son
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Here’s the best of my unpublished poetry over last week or two. Part 20. Love you all. Enjoy. 😉
collection pt. 20
as a baby with a bow.
i unzipped the infant suit,
revealed the zoot suit
riot, having fun
with that tommy gun son?
his game was so insane
it shushed my
true cherub quiet.
textbook suburbanite parochial
early childhood developmental aggression
made me fret right.
made me learn my lessons,
like how to fraction families whole
or how to hurdle whitewashed picket fences.
lost my head in a head shop.
slipstream consciousness wet my bedfellow.
titanium nails wax hot off dabbers sooo
mellow. ground down to a full stop,
herniated the soft wall separating
my murky bottom bowels
from top thought. thought
i had tactility to stop
whenever i want. damn
how facts wane and
with the slippery runoff
and the drips.
the i am postulate
am i an institution of body and mind?
i am not the sort of i to discriminate,
you see, as if my body would mind
without mind to make it all matter.
i find myself i-dentifying but that dont tell
the whole story. metaphysical answers
are trapped in time, i think. so are
all the disciplines. another time
a simple gazing up at the heavens
would do. now, the path to the now
is instituted in books, vernacular trapped
in an era. mother gave me easy looks
and the connection was established –
a bare i; mind finding thought anew,
riding neural pathways, then out over
the next conceptual institution: me and you.
what of the river? its mouth? the sea?
what of our path naturally expanding
and evening into a wide wild delta
like the final flex of a life’s arm,
or our last lingering exhale, million
saks our memories and lives past
in grand assembly. christ and me
and emmerson. you and jefferson
maybe. jefferson was a closet
mason at nine muses and a racist.
somewhere deep in the early
workings of the tradition he holds
to I see a philosophy of process
and an eschatology of divine stasis.
we are all pieces, particle freedom.
sea salts in our vision. smiles on our faces.
the now denominator
neti neti the negative way.
tabula rasa, the blank slate.
some say surrender into
wings, others say express
pure energy like suns burning.
but i find in this now nothing
to suggest anything’s common
about the diversity of these
methods – of forms, slates
or self expression – save attention.
♫ hope u enjoyed! Jim –
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