They are for me,
somewhere between
private and secret,
Longing to be seen
but for my shame.
Scout, scribe, producer, creator
of everything that is new,
unique
And worthy
of our praise
Are captured in those pages
As if it really happened
that way,
One visionary of pure commitment
who brings the most sublime
seemingly alone,
The Great One
in every endeavorous occupation
man is fit and prone to:
carjacking to tiddlywinks,
obscure presidents to
one-man genres
of junk
All collected here
in the perfection of detail,
What might have been, if heroes were,
If I was in it, not as central cast player,
not even as a person at all,
Just watching, blissfully, the librarian
of human perfection
never really possible on this Earth
and the files better for that,
to have not really happened
but been imagined
as if remembered
lived.
But the curtains are closing in,
they can no longer be just one
vision, each perspective puzzled
into the whole, merged among soulsparks,
but a multitude
that exists for multiplicity,
And I am left with a cake – all frosting –
and so many skinned ones left alive.
What drives this sweet tooth?
That brings such holiness and joy
this thing forbidden,
called useless, not real,
the thing they throw you in looney bins for,
dissociated, unsustainable
Until I go on to a new one, a new angle of me,
a bender
pulled out of the singularity,
a near-face, a vibrancy
not quite there,
where we are,
here,
but greater ones
who can’t exist,
the heroes only stone,
the longing, really, for the feeling
achievement
bestows
without the fetid failures
and lack of will, failure to pour
one’s insight out far enough
no
years of drinking beers on the coast raising chickens,
no one-trick wonder hit ponies who never grazed
from the fields they was born
folks not big enough
for my dreams to disappear into,
Not the composite figure
just like us.
Ah but when the laws bend
it's like when too much light gets in
the convent window,
there's no end
to the contemplation
of how one could be
what no one really was,
a sublimation of what is felt,
the art, instead of the life
that found it
that lived in it
for a brief time,
but couldn’t be that life
existing independently of us,
and made us human, being slightly more,
and even if the files that prove the possibility
will be tossed
to the waste
when it is no longer my memory
perhaps it would no longer be needed,
maybe it makes things go
somewhere else,
Maybe it's the only clue
of what I am to be,
having already been,
already seen
and done,
These things one would regard
as impossible,
like John and Paul being
one and the same.