Writing is not cathartic, even though its feeling of release is present; it is not enlightening, however, it provokes critical thinking; it is not, above all, entertaining, nonetheless it transports you. I write in order to rationalize interiority, to catch emic experiences with a net. Everything, however, revolves and remains inside.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

Likethew i n d

Below he converges
He diverges, above.
And when he lets himself
get wrapped up in nothing,
like the wind he builds upward around its center
and so shreds what passes through the wall of its eye.

I count the forces
To which pressure declines:
‘Let me command without
the burden of your words’,
he says, ‘let me see myself as human, un-ruled, and
watch as I displace what you’ve settled at land’.

If stable then stable
Today, I let it flow.
But when he covers fast
The rest is unready,
and I can only hold it back so much so more
...to feel the current like before.

The book I read I remember. He looks, I say
Friction at the base will slow it down, but it will not change the direction of its heart.
He forms, passes, and disperses. He understands.

My love
I let him go, dry and motionless, to sleep.

No comments:

If it speaks to you...