|furious gesturing||2:49pm tuesday, 23rd june|
|evil is much furious gesturing, and posing|
a conductor's baton, a magic wand, a lonely song
we run in circles to dig a zero in the grass
and who am i? this dreamer exited stage left
i am behind the scenes as long as i don't breathe
evil is a quiet, waiting snake of an emotion
a fire that dies at its most brightest burn
this criminal saw the light through the scratches
the glass, black, from artificial nightmares
do you dream it can be so easy to fly away?
home is that notion you have found the center
evil is a drama that shakes down the audience
a wind that never finds rest, to dissipate
i have found the exact star that calls me
as if i could reach not so far to pluck it down
but like a dream, but seconds beyond my grasp
to awake to the rhythm of the churning city
evil is the world where cruelty is made cash
a spire that falls, how great is the ruin of it
none of us sure of the footing in the darkness
did we imagine we would escape the final light?
a fire to fear that burns all the sin from us
evil is what we discard of life, a simple no
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|master sky||10:25pm saturday, 13th june|
|master sky breathed in storms to save them till it was dry|
and it threatened never to come a day they would be useful
time is lighter than the wind is invisible
the mysteries are not dark, as we once had thought
and wanderlust surfaces, as dawn dews every surface
there are no crowds i can lose myself in, i stand out
at once to find me a saint and a thief, pretending otherwise
i will dream of far places, where moonlight escapes
fly on wings that no one can see, except as whispers
fly to horizons where the city is grafted to the sky
where i touch down, roses shall grow without end
master sky is not who i want to be, such poetry
for my way is the road, even as the wanderlust i bury
i shall dig it up again when i am shrouded in darkness
and the fires are holy that light unspeakable places
and the typography of the signs are unfamiliar here
i will emerge, i think, from my imaginary chrysalis
more man than fairytale, ready always to begin
the archer at the twilight distance, whose aim is true
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|The Wise Man||9:34pm saturday, 6th june|
|a children’s story for grown-ups|
There was a man who wrote a book of wisdom. “If you follow every word,” he said, “you will be very happy. I know because I follow none of it, and I am very sad.” It sold very well, and the man became very famous.
Many people tried to talk to him; reporters followed him wherever he went. “Why are you following me?” he asked the reporters.
They replied, “Because you are a very wise man. We want to know what you have to say about everything.”
He thought for a moment, rubbing his chin, then said, “Everything is rubbish, if you look at it in a certain way. Everything is precious, if you look at it in another way. I look at the world in both ways—everything is precious rubbish, the garbage of God. Now, stop following me.”
The reporters jotted this down, but they did not stop following him. Moreover, there was a crowd gathered around his house who would not leave.
He asked them, “Why don’t you go home?”
“Because you are a very wise man,” they said. “We want to know how to live life.”
He paused, thinking, rubbing his chin again, then said, “Many before me have already told you how to live life. If you won’t listen to them, you won’t listen to me. Now, go home.”
The people nodded, yes, yes, but they stayed where they were.
Then the man realized his mistake—he had believed them when they said that he was a very wise man. He would show them how stupid he really was. It happened to be winter, and it was bitterly cold outside, so he took off all his clothes and walked out of his home naked.
“It is a sign!” the people shouted. “We must all be naked, like he is!” And they all took off their clothes and stood shivering in the cold.
He stared at all of them for a little while, then as he turned his back to them to go back inside, he told them all, “Put your clothes back on. You’ll all catch a cold.”
He realized from this that no matter what he did, the people would think him wise, and they would do what he did, no matter how stupid it was. He was sorry that he had ever written the book, of which he followed nothing anyway. He just happened to know the heart well enough to know what was good for it, even if it was advice he’d never follow himself.
Then, he knew what he had to do; he began writing another book. This time, he told people to do exactly what he always did, which was the complete opposite of the first book. The publisher was confused, but the man was famous now, so the publisher published it. The people were confused, but they believed everything that came from the man, so they did what the book told them to do.
Reporters began to ask him, “Why did you contradict yourself in your second book?”
“Because,” he said, “the first book made me famous, so I wrote the opposite to take that fame away.”
The people outside his home were unhappy, since they did everything the second book told them to do. They cried, “Why did you do this to us? We did everything the second book told us to do, and now we are very sad.”
He answered them, “Now you are just like me, because I do all those things, and so you all must now be very wise. So if you have any questions about life or anything, ask yourself.”
He went inside his house, and eventually, all the reporters and other people went away. For the first time in his life, the man was happy. But he didn’t try to figure out why—that was how the trouble had started in the first place.
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