For What...

The sun burning bright

The moon pulling the tide

The earth dizzying day and night

The prey trying to hide

For what

Stars die

Waters run dry

Rocks crumble 

We all stumble 

For what

Political campaigns 

Marketing strategies 

Celebratory champagnes

DSM categories 

For what

Every law is broken 

The coin is just a token

Victory cannot last 

A shadow's always cast

For what

Another day alive

A dream that just won't rest

Not enough to thrive

Yearning beyond what's best

For what

A place because we're here

A thing that holds us dear

The love beyond the lust

The drive without a must

For what 

It is because it's there

It thinks because it is

It sits upon a chair

It tries to pass its quiz

For what

The move becomes a journey 

The crib becomes the gurney 

The sun rises, falls, and sets

We live with vague regrets 

For what

The answer or the question 

The secret or confession 

The similarity or the difference 

The anxiety or indifference 

For what 

An Excerpt From Vitruvia 144 (End-Note #12)...

 

12.  There’s something about walking through doorways which I find almost mystically appealing. I imagine some silly part of me is always in giddy anticipation of what could possibly be beyond whatever side of a threshold I find myself. Even after I’ve gone through a doorway many times in both directions there’s always a subtle, subdued sense in me that this time could be different. It’s that same allure of standing at the entrance of some path leading into the depths of a forest which leads me to imagine that some secret Promised Land or New Eden is just waiting for me to transcend my own world by simply entering into it. Of course no matter what threshold it is that I cross or what room or realm I enter into it all inevitably just ends up being the next place I will yearn to leave. All the civilized spaces are just the grid coordinates which wrap the entire world within its vast yet cloistering cage. Even the apportioned plots reserved for nature cannot be occupied for more than a mere moment before a strong sense of ballagàrraidh (an awareness that I don’t belong in nature) makes me feel as if I’m being strangled rather than embraced by this earthly essence. It often seems as if the only welcome in this world comes from whatever place it is that I am leaving as it ushers me into any realm away from its own, as it only welcomes the chance to be rid of me. Perhaps I too tire of my surroundings in this same way, and this is really why I welcome doorways, so that I may avail myself of these realms which are far too insufficient to inhabit, and which I am insufficient to inhabit as well. I suspect that even when I am finally ushered unto that final realm of death that I will still find myself searching for some other threshold to cross no matter how dismal or delightful such an ethereal place may be. But enough about doorways. I want to move along into something else now.

A Vision Of Trees...

I walk through the forest

In envy of the trees

They don’t seem to struggle

To be stuck where they are

Or obscured by the forest

They don’t seem to care

What nests in their branches

As they reach toward the sun

Or what basks in their shade

Or what eats of their fruit

 

I stand in the forest

In awe of the trees

Do they know their value

As lumber, or paper, or pulp

Do they understand the fact that

All they have to do is grow and die

And they can still become transcended

As the woodwork of a beautiful building

Or the pages of some transformative tale

 

I leave the forest

While contemplating the trees

I tell the trees they are marvelous

But they don’t need to know this

They don’t need anything

Except for maybe a bit of light

And the occasional rain

Although they don’t seem to mind

When the clouds block the sun

And refuse to let go of the rain

Until the soil has cracked dry

And leaves shrivel to die

 

I dream of the forest

As a man become tree

I imagine the sun beaming down

And my limbs reaching high

As the earth embraces my roots

And the winds dance my leaves

But I wake as a man

For better or worse

Do the trees dream

Of ants, or of me

Is there any difference

As they look down

From their dream