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Within the flash of five minutes of The Crying Game
When a man loves a woman, Ferris wheel turning, bridge, and all
I knew that movie would go down as one of my all-time favorites.
Long before the big reveal.
Within the first five pages of Wuthering Heights
A perfect introvert’s haven, and such a suitable pair to divide the desolation
I knew that book would go down as another of my all-time favorites.
Long before the singularly obsessive ache of its eternally haunting embrace.
Which leaves me: Who am I?
Where am I? What am I?
Other than the great introvert I am, so few can see, driven by an introvert’s experience.
Machines are honest, far more than not
Artificial intelligence, locks and keys, chains and brains
Unless there is a glitch, a worm that festers in the gut. 2001.
I am not a machine
Not an artificial scream
Not a recording from deep memories that have atrophied inside me.
I live
Presently
Where living can be like dying is like is a hundred different places
And a thousand different pieces.
And I make mistakes
I experience drag in being able to forthright myself.
I think
I have thoughts
I am mind
Which generally takes greater than its fair share of my attention.
I love mind. And life. And the mathematics of life
Kenny, bridge, Fermat’s Last Theorem
Sorting out problems
Every day so many problems to solve I bring on myself and otherwise.
Notwithstanding, I do have feelings that shape and sharpen my being
And my writing
Deep feelings
Pervasive feelings
Oppressive feelings
Tears, joy, anger, relief, laughter, sorrow, desolation and the like
Pulse, screams, sex, pain, and fireside.
| √ | I am not a robot |
I love writing. I love poetry. And I need.
I need writing.
I can live without writing but I cannot die without writing.
I need warmth; and like the sun, I need to give and be the warmth of writing
In at least some corners of this world.
I need love. I need to love.
I need the poetry of love. I need the poetry of life. I need the poetry of giving.
I need Linda Gregg. I need Ko Takamine. I need Lyd Daniels.
I need Linda Gregg. I need Ko Takamine. I need Lyd Daniels.
Ah! What is poetry what is great?
Exposing an idea fragmentally
Completed only when the second poet – the reader – completes it
Provided the idea is worthy of a reader’s intellect and a poet’s heart.
All great writing swirls in the same eddies of inner and outer truth.
I am all the love of all my children, to my youngest, Trinity,
And into their hands I put the memory of mine.
Speaking of whom: Trinity, Lass, the genuine you,
Why can you not always be the loving, loveable, compassionate angel you are?
I need the touch of love in my arms as well as in my brain.
I am mind and fathering. I need mind and fathering, like music.
I love music. I need music. Music of the ear, and music of the spheres.
Music holds a space for all of us to be who we are.
I am imagination
Of the spheres
Of the soul
Of the Immaculate Dream.
Imagination is Creation is God.
I am many years of the past, and fewer of the future.
Time has filled me
And in time, time will empty me.
Time is large
And I but a part of it.
Time contains multitudes.
I, too, but fewer.
A heart is leatherworked in heat to contain what it can hold and bear what it can carry.
Who wishes to walk with me? With what baggage, my Friend?
To travel with me?
Will you speak before I am gone?
It is gone?
Before this body before me in the mirror is gone?
I am body, physical, spit, and memory of sex.
I am what women and their touch, Bill’s widow have made of me.
What passion and the perspective of love have made of me.
I am a man, imperfect.
And not the least
I am duty.