Nothing
is remotely what you thought
you
had intended. Somewhere into this odd enterprise, suspended in its co-creation
to which you inevitably bring your own
surmises and unwieldy gifts, sifts some strange
other yielding consciousness: the separate
imponderable part. How effortlessly
rhymes attach to “part” – “art” and “heart”!
And yet you will not start or end with that foregone
assertion. Esthetic theory alerts you: use experience
lubriciously – officiously parade your lusts
and loves and sensory appurtenances to distract
the passing eye: resist the comfortable sigh
of the abstract. But you can badly lose
your bearings doing that. I am waiting in the dark
until some different bumpy thing abides –
decides to ride – affront – flap in. I won’t go away
until whatever that is wants to happen.
.
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