A labyrinth of worlds not ennumerations,
Only a chance, rambling mind can keep itself atuned
to the shape of a thing that does not hold itself
by shapes.
To prune, to keen the edge upon
a harvest of standing dreams (lonely, solitary, lost).
I toil for alternate worlds, from art to poetry, as a process.
What fatal crafting is a final dream, it holds the lock and reckons keys.
A secret in every birth, in every boundary, each bifurcation, any dimunition.
I continuously call to a deadly future, feel lost for finding somehow here the ties that bind by blinds or hands or minds, myself to the free terror blood-heart instant of life.
Art is an attempt to wrestle with the elemental aspects of personhood, an expression of deepest desire, are painful or sexual, explicitly, and implicitly mine, secret, and bound in love and violence.
The artist is at his greatest when he is most conscious; when what dwells about him begins to weave its own wreathes into the leaden dusk. (not self-concious, act-concious)
What solutions do we finally require
but those that set to rest
all we once desired. This gives to true beginnings.
Why not believe that we have somehow failed our natures, that we somehow miss the point of our existence so consistently and easily that we have hurtled down the road the first fool followed, never remembering another choice . . . . This gives to horizons.
Who gave us the nature we have or that we thirst for? It is our I, and it is by feeding and cultivating the I that we can sit as a soldier sits on a hill or a priest at dinner or a lady in travel or a child over insects, that gives the strength to see unblinking to walk widely and venture with an iron-will. This gives to the heart.
Where have we gone and cannot leave? Where are the sink-holes where the will faltered or the heart could not break? These fasten us to the world, these are the corners of a life well-lived, in conflict, in peace, in love, they are hard when they have happened and are soft in occurring. This gives to inner-strength and resolving futures.
When have we met with another as with ourselves, in peace, through the eyes, among words, and words passed as though they were only worry-stones we could pick from the air, as though they were doorways already guessed at, only sign-posts to the surety and strength of a bond in spirit by kind and ken? This gives to hope and to life-blood. Thought-spots Main