The cultivars of catastrophe
Are the closest we know, in the real,
To reality.
The notes go all over,
Along the outlines of some inner plain.
The meaning is hidden in a recess of brain
Far away, and charged with a particular way
Of thinking.
The infinities of interpretation
Come from the same central eye
That will push blind reflexive
Expression aside, like the wind
Overrides a tumbleweed.
To serve the unknown
In the guise of this town,
This street, these people
Is the same thing as serving the truth,
That thing only known in refusal,
In the emptiness of the invisible
Touched with gold.
How will we know, in multiplicity,
That we’ve lost the way, that wisdom’s dying
For what can’t be shared, but must be?
Each moment has become an eternal finality,
Words beadstrings of jewelry
Released to be re-leashed again
In a brittle concatenation
All equal as a soul
In consensual freedom
From having to mean, open to any understanding.
Is that not the way of advance?
To have each singular, each peculiar particular
Accepted
Into the blackness of the whole?
If only we could fight for truth
The way we fight to be right.
But the bifurcation is behind us,
And we are jump cut, no longer recognized
By ourselves, by the past
That is happy for the most part to be erased.
But it will say to me, if asked,
In the most forceful way:
“The worst of the worst is the good,
For you have to look,
Feel around,
Evaluate yourself,
Instead of turning the page with a devil’s cackle,
Feeling quite happy to be free.”
