To what do I owe the pleasure?

To thee, of course.

To years of truth that cut like scalpels, knives and saws,
Leaving me bloody, but lighter.

To years of fire that burn away the underbrush, deadfall and chaff,
Setting the forest floor for growth anew.

To years of flood that have washed away all the loose, fetid rot of me,
Where my "good" and "bad" are not distinguished.

To the wind, ever-present, blowing hard from all directions;
Challenging me to stand in the face of it and howl back.

To all those energies that have come to manifest my life;
Each person, place, thing that has helped me become more verb-like.

The magic of banality, the wonder of boredom, the thrill of ennui;
Each sting of assumption and error a Zenji.

To sit
As a stone
In a field;
Immovable but by time,
Resolute through stasis,
Confident via gravity,
Stalwart by way of density.
Eternal on the small scale,
Insignificant to the large.
A solid, concrete illusion.
An ├Žons-old, tenuous conglomeration.
Yet ever crumbling,
Out of time,
out of place,
out of form,
The Universe spreads her legs,
Noumena is born.
Looking upon this place
With blurry,
impossibly blue eyes;
Seeing that all is right with the world,
and greeting it with a awful, confused wail.


Anonymous said...

The tension between "greeting" and "aweful confused wail" is magical - perfect poem - seriously.