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Point of No Origin

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  • Point of No Origin

    So I recorded my own reading of this poem and decided to share, I hope you enjoy, i was speaking lightly, -- one could read along while i "read", for instance. Or whatever.
    Great, here is the link, and the words.

    To go beyond visual, as in step from word to sight to sound to speech: Thought that bounces around like rinsing your mouth of the sludge. I had seen the snow change colors beneath people's tires, a frame waiting without a bow to portray presents, which had no names, an empty idea of what is supposed to be.
    I've seen the black attacks of white-hot blinding anger, i would wonder at how offended an Angel could be. Turned into a devil, then. Won't you dance with me? Beyond the visual, to go beyond someone's first memory. Why it was imprinted. What is the basis of the person's understanding of themselves, where do i stand. I lose parts of what is there, and i don't want that to happen. I wonder what eyes to watch, with their stringencies, i raise my heart and my gaze pinioned on a pole--

    Left cold. Words became the shadows our hands made, they moved around the axis, the praxis, the nexus of the solar plexus. Shooting faster like the night sky, the color of hydrogen on my tongue. I wondered at the flakes which blessed me, and burnt on their way down.

    Remember memories made, neat, next to the squandered paradise. I remember how tall you are. You would open your eyes, and it would take a few thousand centuries for the opening to complete. You'd stare through everyone and everything. And what would that look like, we could only each stare back into you, and it was Yours; up to you -- location, multi-location, the echoes draped of a past i should have known would enliven me as well as kill me in the same breath. You would never know what it's like, that kiss, the sweeping scorched kiss of black death.

    Charred bones like carrion to beat against me frame with their wings, while i plainly sense your paradise, in bits, little tiny pieces needed to mince things up -- a way about my day which colors schools of fish beneath the timid running waters. I half-see you beneath and behind the vines. Wonder why. I notice what laughter blinks, i lose frames of consciousness in you. Lose them all, you say.

    That voice, ... carry, carry me away. Neath the wounded face of the face we never show, and why it needs love like a bird needs light ... but there is dark singing anyway, if one pays enough attention. We see a track, one in which I am on, and it dwindles into its neat paradise, and it achieves harmony ... in feeling and being and doing and thinking and consuming and producing and remaining nothing. Its fascination, long ago dead, dead with the love of life and the want and need for people.

    You mythologize what is best and worst in you, in your works and deeds, and the scope of giant beings who've slept whole worlds away just to be stiller than silence in wait for the inevitable cracking of the shell. New pangs, dear life being brought forth. Delivery, blessed light. The feet of angels fall and the mist consumes them all. They twist and blend into one. The light scabbards them each, and hid behind wings, not one shadow creeps in still, under the holy penetrating light. See the eyes whine, shining then gleaming, for seeming forsooth, or undirect, their thoughts are flooded with the light's abyss, the infinite-most infinity: the color is gone, all form is gone, meaning is undivided, shape and place and time and dark: gone.

    Where have they gone, now that we are separated. Inside your body like this i wonder. Is it so perfect, that we seam ourselves into the curtains and draperies, the pillows sitting un-askew, the place we stretch across, to streak ourselves upon the glass edge: this moment, i and mine, alike with yours. Habit full of my heart. Separate myself: Don't disappear. This is where i lose you.

    Someone was looking for you. I am more attracted to the tears of someone else. Even my own are beautiful dark tasty. What can i do but drink this tea in front of me? What do i love, is its absence in love with me? Can i say to the otherside of everything, i am "not" just as much as you "are": We silently accord. If you wish to fight, or enter my being, or gain access to this reality i know, come through the world and find yourself in me mirrored from the liquid glassy light, distance equal to fretfulness between shores of nothingness. Fate and chance and touches, a little fading sunset near the coconut's dropping sounds. Why -- confounded by the palm trees which lean, and escape beyond the mosaic of green by thre tresses and the ivy climbing. As if i were always here. I become a statue no one can stare into my eyes.

    What is wrong with the scorching kiss, mixed with black bodies of water which never move? Is it dumb dismal loneliness which took their hearts from them, themselves, this time? They must blame God as if the answer were to stay a baby forever: We are tasked to grow. It is in our blood and bones and genes and memory. We have to know. We have to know because the burning passion bursting within us is more than anything connected to the central pillar which leads to ... the words everyone speaks, of devils and the gods which won the war, and became. This is history, rotting in flames. This is spit and backwash and finding sympathy and grace for a change, not what i had expected.

    I have been cursed, and i fear I will soon lose this curse. Next to the manic fits where I jump high enough to reach the moon Or Jesus on the cross casting shadows through every room. What does it make, now that you've gone and left me like this, he and you and the rtest of the world Unable to reach me inside my hell inside my shell even deeper now. I gained a better understanding of you, while fate slew me once again, and my thoughts and plans to be humble, also slewn. What can i do, i am the reaper's own. I fall in love with it because it is ringing beautiful to my loving soul. What is there to deny? That is always the first question, i think. Like, pick apart the bony remains of the ashes left from prior friendships-- am i like the statue Ozymandias, except unknown, without a face? Odin's eye peers through the passage.

    Am I not me? Could i not fall in love beyond a scripted meaning, perchance to die again, to find you near my side, dancing like the fiery-light;-- your feet both and your eyes?-- Hurricanes, to wonder if it's write to be used twice?-- Let's be honest-- used to this, and being used to this end, what can purpose show of our design ... then, what about it is not Intelligent? Our reflections break down in stochastic processes the machines are panting to map. Again, the praxis, the function, the nexus, a bringing up of this connection. Fascinate us. Open up my eyes above. Close my eyes below.

    Look at me, we are numb to fear, joyless; death ceases to touch what is left, and with our reaper's grins, we appear exactly as we had wished. And this is what we look like underneath. And this is the horror missing from our poetry. We make a pact, we get stuck in glass prisons, we cut ourselves on the way out -- walking through the endless maze, next to the sky which can only frighten us with such vastness, as we tiptoe back into the school room .... on the cliff. Or twisting in the foundations we see the fallen ones stuck in the rooms, staircases winding, the empty places. No one is there. I am helplessly stuck.

    I can't. I can't rememeber. I can't remember why. I try to make my way up to you, i walk so nimbly you'd imagine i slipped into animal-form. That is the grand escape. Now my options, now my fate, my decision and state. How ever will they find me? Do you think that is the [Option].

    Point of No origin.

  • #2
    I'll admit I have little to no clear comprehension - but it is mesmerizing to listen to your words in your own voice. Thank you.


    • amenOra
      amenOra commented
      Editing a comment
      My intention with this one was totally -- just that. I was like, be it the gulps of air i take in when i come up from the water, the whole poem is my breath. so it is evocative, and yes, i put some logic to a pretzel, im still comprehending it myself. thank you

  • #3
    Like Paula, I too struggled to get any real grip on this but I found the imagery fascinating as I did listening to your voice - that adds a powerful dimension. Thank you for sharing it


    • #4
      Thanks friends... Some of my writing is more coherent than others; i am always working at an angle, how to express what i am going through. I am gonna see if i can be more clear... maybe more "linked", as in less abstract, more concrete, and connecting to familiar stuff. It's a cool exercise to see what would obfuscate, and why, and then what would be clarity and "contingent", and whole.
      N really floored that my reading of it went well. I was nervous about reading and sharing it, it seemed to go well. Thank you, mooney.


      • #5
        I found this very sad as though pre-destined to suffer and for love, happiness, acceptance to be illusive no matter how strong the desire and will for things to be different. Enjoyed hearing your reading. Thank you for sharing.