Spontaneous Words Scribbled In False Creek Park

The beautiful obsession mentioned in this piece is the need, or the desire to express myself through poetics.  It has been one of my favourite writes thus far and doesn't seem to wear thin for me as time goes on.




I will follow my beautiful obsession
into a pregnant orchard,
lithe and abundant,
clean with possibilities
of clarity.
I will release mind thoughts,
nebulas of my own spirit,
throw incongruent phrases
out into the wind
like the ashes I will become
when I reach the edge
of this illusion,
feeling the power of a circle
of clasped hands,
my soul crystallized
back to perfection.
I will touch the historical moan,
taste the solitary tears
that encircle the globe,
float with my lover
through sociological clouds . . .
bypassing momentary thoughts
of death.

AND AS I DO ALL THIS,
I WILL REMIND MYSELF
THAT I AM HUMAN,
FRAGILE
AND IN NEED
OF INTERNAL CLEANSING.

Oh blueprint before birth,
that which strokes honestly,
tenderly without hands,
where the first dewdrop
kisses the limbs of barren trees,
where nuns no longer embrace
archaic crucifixes,
where I lay naked
with the essence of orca
and magpie and tiny caterpillar.
Gone beyond biological realm,
not even desiring
comprehension of money ladders,
stratospheres of artificial
hunger,
or bicycle paths
that lead one past aching forests
covered in dust.

AND AS I SWAY BACK
TO THE VERY BEGINNING
OF MY BREATH,
I WILL REMIND MYSELF
THAT I AM HUMAN,
FRAGILE
AND IN NEED
OF INTERNAL CLEANSING.

Oh I long for the holy forest,
that which grows outside
biblical Edens,
that cannot be usurped
by the fingers,
the breasts of Babylonion
archangels,
who, stuck inside the lust
of their own self-made
temptations,
slowly embrace finality.
Slowly embrace finality,
follow exit signs through
doors encrusted with samsaric
manna,
enter a world of blank expectations,
swirling through the black holes
of a void ---
No light here,
no glint of eagle eye,
no tender wink from chipmunk
or the silent faces of trees.

AND AS I POINT MY FINGER
I WILL REMIND
MYSELF
THAT I AM HUMAN,
FRAGILE
AND IN NEED
OF INTERNAL CLEANSING.

Oh as I follow my beautiful obsession
here on this planet,
watch my brethren swallowed up
by some huge hyena
of illusion,
coddled by Hollywood
and television propaganda,
starving for what the other has got,
even though the other is emancipated,
flesh and bones becoming dust,
failing to remove
the tragic lace from their eyes.

YES, AND AS I BECOME
OVERTLY CRITICAL
I WILL REMIND
MYSELF
THAT WE ARE ALL HUMAN,
FRAGILE
AND IN NEED
OF INTERNAL CLEANSING.

I fall weeping before
the messianic blood pouring
from Christ's feet,
I touch the Buddha's palm
and come to understand
the hidden meaning of the word
SUFFERING . . .
where I sit in the dark
and sketch poems
onto the surface of the moon,
where I meditate at the foot
of the ancients,
where I discover
that I am indeed sentient,
floating through a dream
and this dream that we define as life,
as living,
as the absolute embodiment
of existence

IS ONLY A DREAM!!!

Oh what else is there to say?
Where be the words that can be
understood from the divinity
of a Shelleyian mind,
beyond the antediluvian
dictionary of Oxford
and Cambridge,
beyond the shallow grave
where linguistic ghosts
come into my midnight reveries,
haunt my ears with blessings
and laughter
and leave me OH SO RESTLESS
when the dawn gives birth
to yet another day?

AND AS MY VOICE
BECOMES MUTED,
I WILL REMIND MYSELF
THAT I AM HUMAN,
FRAGILE
AND IN NEED
OF INTERNAL CLEANSING.

This spontaneous discourse,
this quickly scribbled
conglomeration of images
that tries to echo the click beetle,
that tries to imitate the oratory
of romantic larks,
that attempts to rub itself
back to spiritual virginity ---

It is,
as always,
lacking the clarification I seek.
It comes forth from my biological tongue,
my poor aching lungs.
It is timid,
it timidly whispers
before a microphone upon a beach
where the wind blows the words
back into my mouth
and chokes me into silence.

But I will follow
this beautiful obsession,
not allowing the flames inside me
to burn so hot
that I cannot replenish myself
over and over again.
I will come to understand in time
the only true poem that was ever
written,
even though it has not yet
been translated.
I will drink my cup of tea,
wear out 2,000 notebooks,
rack the inside of my mind
until I become nothing
but a translucent vapour,
floating above my body
in an aura of light

MY SOUL

CRYSTALLIZED

BACK

TO PERFECTION