Get Idle

“What do I want to promise to the world? A paragraph, the wordy wonder of blocks, fonts, artful normalcy, reliability, expectations, and sheer heroism to begin the new years. Maybe the world can promise to me a little quiet, a little assurance, a few role models, some days that I feel like crying out of advanced laughter – and on other days a pensive melancholy. On this ship, on a road northeast and high, I have flew over the sands of all the things I am, all the things I have. But I don’t imagine foreseeing it over religiously anymore, I hope to kick my commitment, my moral addiction, its better for all of us to never have the probability to destroy the literature of paradise, and the innocence of poetry. Is it wrong? Probably. I should learn to keep things to my self, my own self. This is how I feel, with a heart full of desire, like stopping, arresting the motions and abstract notions in young decay. At least until June, I’ll save myself from the trouble in the far away tale of triumph – that I had for such a short time but it glows to me as enough. I can see that I’m blind, and I can write that I see a Curacao ocean, all moderately manifesting the setting of all the world. I’m not running away, I’m still here, waiting for the sun and the moon atop the apartment heights looking down at the sea of travelers taking their avenue to existence, to survival, toleration, to life and space and time. Soon sometime in the time to come, I’ll have a gruff fatherland that makes me realize the reality I’m living in. I’ll always be alive, feel young in pictures. However, I’ll say goodbye, I’ll say it without resent but I may regret it later on.

A better time. Could you tell me that? A lover’s place. Do I know that? A perfect narrative. I’ll find it in power rotting by the hands of psychedelic pathways shooting up and down; cardiac activity doe eyeing me from the corner of the blue thickets collapsing on the brave truck soldier, the mystical shepherds grazing the palm trees of hot lands, sad fame lands, a plan so far away, and I understand and I have it all, I have my life, the dirt and the text of a tomorrow. I may think I’m past the fear, the guilt and suspicion but I know that if I ever find out the opposite, it will nakedly hurt me always, every time.”

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Watt

It's all a matter of rust and shine, to serve a distinction between to have and to have not.

18 thoughts on “Get Idle”

  7. What an expert piece, Watt.

    This is at least the second of your texts, perhaps third, in which I could not find a pivot, a stake, to hold on to while I travel with you. But yet, you did not leave me behind and I breathed almost normally while reading this.

    So how did you carry us through? I am not sure.

    One of the ways are the questions you pose. One in the first paragraph: a rhetorical question which you answer. Two in the second. Each question mark grabs my attention. The questions grab me.

    But this cannot be the only reason my attention was held. Spellbound, actually, Poet. I’ll read it again at tomorrow’s dawn because now I have to know exactly how you held us.

    What an expert piece, Poet. Sarah

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  9. Again, just happily flowing along with you. I’ve always been a river in my soul, which might partly explain why your work draws me in – those words just bend and sway, twist and turn – flow… Could also be because I feel your thoughts are somewhat Seussian – is that a word? If not, it is now. You’re like a Keroac-sian? A Seus-ouac? Oh who the hell knows? 🙂

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