Wednesday, April 13, 2011

front row seats

as long memory serves now, I sit on them fences, indulge my pensive, hands folded, my weight driving the stakes deeper inside, powerless, yet not. I listen to all the voices coursing through the dying wood.

these fences, they become so important as I age, they stretch so long and deep and around, festooned in opinion shaped light sources, electrified by chain link judgements, blissfully uninterrupted by original thought. solid to the onslaught of change or moral courage, their stakes cause irreparable damage under the ground, beyond the sky.

they exude the wood magnetic, solid and gas have interchanged places on the compass I carry.

for rules of a mankind that parted the ocean and built the seas, put stickers on each constellation and a price tag on each evening. moved and squatted under tree after tree, as another mankind followed it around cutting them down. of faceless denizens unknown to most, save their own dynasties, clinging to an identity only reasonable by birth.

a mankind shifting foot by foot across pavements thick with stereotypes, as it sings haunting litanies about the road least travelled. this is no mankind for the weak hearted who would flinch at the first sight of blood. this is no man's land without the hate, that kept the singing numbers in check, barely concealed resentment will hardly do.

spiders crawl through these fences all the time, demanding little pieces, large chunks, eternities, of my loneliness, asking for that which they must not ask, asking that which I cannot give, do not want to, yet asking, all the time, speckling and burning, seeking.

they own most of the cracks in my reverie now, their webs poised at each turn lassoing silvery slivers of web across each defenceless tear, building a nexus to crawl through and run around in general busyness. racing with a species of feverish activity always mistaken for action, to feed.

the intertwined barbed wire webs wind treacherous, their annals curl scorching and sharp. I wish I had the final answers I was promised with age.

I remain pointless yet, all I can try is to swerve as often, as gently, as the driver seat allows, from direct collision with green envies and red rages

the track is damp with disuse, the fences are burning, I have to care

In the auction of the Mind of Man, you have yelled out to the Universe the lonely vowels, I-I-I-I and heard them echo back a whispered ... "Yes, you are ..." - Sophy Burnham

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