“A pause to prose and pause”

And so it comes that the poet can no longer bear to verse to punctuate to divide to paragraph rhythms allegories neither embellish.

Prose becomes necessary, also the pause that follows — to think because all that was written, though still true, was badly or mildly felt.

                But he feels.

—-/ /—-

“A building gets torched. All that’s left is ashes. I used to think everything was true about everything. But now I know…” (James O’Barr)

“Have you seen above?”

Oh! Have I seen land!
            I’ve seen land, safe coasts
            and green and
            swimming waters

Throughout every sea
          I’ve sailed or un-
          shipped to…

Yet I have not seen ocean
    in its almight
Pressure too much
    The feel too much to enlight

(but frightful as it is
therein spreads life!)

– – –

“Three little syringes in a pile of blood and epoxy resin — and a note-to-self”

No more analogies, metaphors, figurations, interpretations or comparative analysis and all else involving oceans from a self-taught with no teaching skills who can’t even swim.

There are other means to stop the brain

Climb up a mountain. More pressure, less air. Lower the oxygen going to the brain. Dumb one self. It’s kind of like sniffing glue, except that you come back with scratches all over and built up musculature.

“Despite it all”

Life has being a ever
growing puzzle of
beautiful pieces
each itself another puzzle.

It has presented itself to me
as fractals of Beauty and Tenderness
Yet I wait and long for its end since childhood.

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