Where do you find your poetry?
In the foot on floor slide across the space?
Face pressed up against the glass. Cold, hard, squished.
All I can see is the surface opaqueness through absolute proximity. Transparency requires distance.
If we step outside, will our vision clear?
Trace your eyes across the scene until illumina flashes, and make your way with due haste.
Mark my words.
Zero waste in experience - this Zen taste - this electric sky - this tantric lake - we partake in sensory sublimation and sexual salvation and sinuous sultriness and
slip inside this house - which has many rooms.
Walking the corridors of cosmic power, of infinitesimal immensity, of the ecstasy of minutiae, and precision where it counts.
Sometimes it is the whole scene,
and sometimes it is a selection,
and sometimes a sole focus.
Where you find your poetry?
In the everything-everything and the this-that.
Poetry finds me willing and ears primed...
...to ride the rhythms of an aesthetically-charged reality.
