Does it move?
Is it dead?
Look at him poke it now with a stick, oh it comes to life and throws a kick,
And blinded by a waking rage, rattles the world against its cage…
Day, over. Can’t quite grasp it, like lifting water with bare hands, it falls away gurgling.
The sun sinking without a noise, vast and distant and giving us eyes. Why, we are made in and of this diurnal movement, not seperate or aloft, or aware of the moment.
water in streams and straining to reach, aspiring to learn, striving to teach.
I am not tall I am a child, just stepped away to pass a while.
Sometimes we are older and sometimes do not feel it, busy in motion and faking to mean it.
Do you love yourself, or does it make any sense, there are many meanings to the present tense. Love is a relation, and I am a fact… am I two people, or my relation an act?
It is the idea, and the idea is mine, mediated and vectored, jaded and fine.
I held aloft a crazy thought, from beams in dusty sunlight caught.
Always in motion from shadow to shade,
I held it out where it cannot fade.
But my arms already, tire and drop
My idea lurches and slows to stop,
You might have seen it fold and flop.
Play it loud, wherever, volume to drive out the ghosts
Blast the cobwebs off the walls,
Turns out they held it all together, balls.
Too short too slow, too stuck to know
Way out, way in, hell where I been?
A sublime distinction,
I was not aiming for my mark,
I would prefer to shoot the dark,
As unguided I cannot be led astray
To drift and trip will suit me well today.
Meander but a little way,
find and erode a path in clay.
Mere edges and lines,
The I is the motion, the me is the sway.
I aspire to being.
