An embarrassment of riches —
when everything seems like poetry,
which lines will you choose to write down?
Writing itself is mostly a form of artifice,
an intrusive edit of an otherwise perfect text —
the skinned-down screenplay of an unfolding life.
It’s truly innocence incarnate — simply remove
the superfluous narrator and it all becomes clear:
no memory, no words, no problem — everything just as it is.
Before the infinite display there was nothing — no name or form,
no world, no galaxies, no ideas, no song birds or various beasts,
no sense of self or not-self, no angel, no god, no recourse
when the going got rough, no going, no arriving —
just pure reality.
Why wasn’t that enough?
If you understand, no poetry will suffice.
If you don’t, no poetry will suffice.
A blind man stands by a window,
looking out to sea.
Beneath the waves, in the uncharted depths,
small creatures nobody has seen or even known
glide silently through a dark realm, unaware
of the blind man by the window, unaware
of these words running across the page
and falling into their own oblivion.
I want to swim with those creatures,
just behind and slightly to the left,
as if I was another one of them.
My gills and fins will be these artificial phrases
which I compose to carry me along in the dark times,
the times that are near when even poetry is finished
and all that remains is this — pure reality.