echo in incipience;
And despite the many great faults of others, which are
plentiful over the long expanse of time (and chiefly my
own, and my own lately), I’m fairly okay. At least today,
which is really all you can hope for, no? And then you
pray for the repeater, like skipping rope while you jog—
each smack of the links on the concrete a reminder that
a day is rounding again, and up for another backhand.
And the direction is forward, ever forward, until pace can
phase out all of its tricks. I guess this should have been
the Ode de ’24 since I’m feeling, if ever so slightly,
optimistic about the personal world in which I find
myself participant. Today, at least.
If there’s anything noteworthy about happiness, it’s
that it’s always there, somewhere, but it gets caught
in poor lighting, accordingly: rearranged, overwhelmed,
stifled into a newly-detailed calculus, sometimes snagged,
like a dick on a zipper. It has no sides to take (and
certainly not mine), but will continue to always be the
echo that tunes to the inner-vibratory conditions; needs
to be reread, translated, reaffirmed in all of its
duplications. Always in incipience. Maybe I’m wrong
about that. Maybe I’m underselling that which I’m not
privy to. I’m not sure, but I do hope all are well in a
way that makes these days tolerable. Or I hope it gets
there for us all, or can be seen that way soon enough.
It feels childish, these forms of training. In many
moments I feel host & guest to naught, and that my
actions are the byproduct of two-dimensional thinking.
I truly think I’m working on it with every bit of poetry,
prose, and through every journal entry—giving pavement
to progress. And I sincerely hope that I can transition
from merely complaining, or giving a courier envelope
to discontent, to talking more openly about experiencing
how beautiful the world actually is.
But I’m okay today, expecting heavy snow here in the
Chicagoland. Shovels are ready and vehicle is hid. I’m
ready to be buried in this. And I’m ready to watch the
dog up to her belly in however many inches of powder
we end up getting throughout the night. It’ll be fine,
all of this will be fine, until I’m ready to be buried.
on time;
Once it’s here it’s marked for change
Like the people nearby, all
Slow in their suits
Slowing down, in stead, to take small
Sizable bites of their fruits
And spending what they have ahead,
As if looking for time
To take one’s hold, take them captive.
Once it was here, it chased a line
Out to the ocean; it was being adaptive
At catching the sun, the big white dancer,
Around the room, around the town
Beating the light to where it intends to be—
On the wall, around the world, down
To the shipyard and gulf to the machines on the sea.
It supplies the forward while we enable the back.
Turns out it never left, it just needed to be rediscovered & stacked.