This is poem J. "To raise up mystery where none exists is
a frozen and graceless act, because it
produces only emptiness."
Baltasar Gracian.
Ah, how the world tempts us.
Leonine light drinking from the streamlet, unaware
of the poorly described whole or in what person I return,
bringing my burden back.
Just what I began with, an object unsheltered,
chalky hill that doesn't exist until I perceive it,
captive in a certain phrase.
My simplest brother, where do I place
this day, its measly dust, its vicarious charity?
Where do I place my being outside?
Who decides upon what occasion good cause, my pity,
should be praised?
Or why, when I read, do I lose hold of the game?
Foreground, the facts, without experience,
reading as if I've got it right just because I understand
the words, weighing subtleties between the lines,
settling on a punishment for this false landscape.
I made it.
But you took it further a threshold, brother.
Diffusely, all of those clashing colors, column of yours so
broken by its red, by its blue.
No one in their right mind would commune with that clarity.
The maimed law of intimation knows nothing empirically,
finds a shortcut, mythical prowess,
dressing the gods, pandemonium.
Once there was a forest, where today,
the barbed wire chokes on its own rust.
False, my melancholy brother, devotee of an unpolluted past,
always longing for yesterday, eating away at its portrait,
its submerged parasite of briefest utopia,
waters face in the water give it weight,
I won't say the name.
Fury of the multitude that demands a destination, when
they're barely wandering the hillside, one
opinion after another, pasturing where they may.
Paltry symbol, boney cow of what I think,
unimpeded gap, dry plain, no place persists beyond,
shall we say, the blessed monarchy of my eyes searching
for something to save, some crust of bread,
my senseless brother.
Descending on that road, I refuse
to retouch ugly tangent of garbage.
Matter is ineffable, an indestructible truth.
And anyway, who would want to expose a corpse, when so much
of the mouth's light pursues it, and not
even a bone to survive its secret.
Ear's gracelessness, let it be filtered by my mob.
Let its prolonged series incur in me, black number.
There goes my lion, dragging it like bait,
piercing it with sharp teeth.
Will it expose the sun within, incarnate and instant, kill
the living body.
And as for the one who would add to it, once more,
will my animal pass through to dismantle the attempt
to rip the theory apart.