Sunday, August 21, 2022

The Impresario Files

               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,


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



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, 


        but greater ones

             who can’t exist,

                       the heroes only stone,

    the longing, really, for the feeling



            without the fetid failures

                  and lack of will, failure to pour

                       one’s insight out far enough


         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.