that it all breaks down * 4/18/13

That it all breaks down.

That it breaks up into pieces.

Pieces eventually found

on the ground.

Pieces retelling a history

and histories inferring orientations.

And these orientations imbibed

with a sense of linearity

and style of depiction

so as to build a primitive fire

for the gathering

of storytelling as kindling. 

It is a ritual

of pragmatic proportions

and the seat upon which

language and the spoken word

began in common ancestry.

I am baffled

by the uncertainty of certainty.

How empty of frame can be.

Don't the senses lead

to their own demise

working towards certainty

in all ways

and yet all the juice of attention

is drawn to the out of frame,

the unexpected, the unusual.

Are these not all deeds of servitude

with task and accountability,

demeaning the mind's efforts

at presence?

Are we not the handcuffs?

Are we not the recipients?

Are we not the crafters, the impetus?    

Are we not our false notion

of any thing?

As a small deed,

what if, to hold nothing in frame

and looking back,

find inquiry, a false hope,

a small ritual,    

a fakery towards relevance?

Who tells the story

where all nouns are fools

and the verbs do not let on?

My voice does not call out

in the night as despair. 

My voice is an aperture of silence

within tall ships of sound

sailing outward,

ripples seeking chauffeured cause

returning to the fold,

one upon the one

upon the one

upon the fold . . .