- Meditation: “All [ Separation ] is Triangulation.” —The Goat, 7 August 2007.
- Did you know? “ Let it be known: No delegates will be found / All delegates are appointed ! Stop delegating ! ” —That same Goat, “self-defined as purposeful”, [ suddenly, on ] 10 August 2007.
twelve years
I have come to see that we create
produce what we ourselves will seek
when we are later someone else, cannot recover
who we must have been in mind.
We gather what we find
and use the sum of these to sculpt a path
uniquely filled with who we were
when we were not yet who we are,
a secret map for who we will become
once this is done.
We shape a path so long it spans the Age
so narrow only one can fit
its shoulders high and steep on either side,
a path but not a path until it's walked
a trail of tools upon the ground where all men stroll
through time.
It is this archive we can tread upon and never see
yet only we can pause to claim it piece by piece
revealing smoothness underneath
where negative space has sliced it free
from all it's not and what it does not
mean to be.
I have come to see the-path-that-cannot-be-a-path
a surface like a river in a gorge behind me
as I make my way collecting who I was
from everything that I have never been,
and so recall discovering all of this
along a different path that was as deep
and webbed with sharper cuts as well
that led to canyons I could not descend
yet marveled at
when first I saw a piece I knew I'd held
and stooped to take into my hand.
The bank eroded just a bit
but with such vibrant coolness in my palm
I filled with wonder as I could recall the carve
just so
not needing now to replicate that act
it was sufficient to its use,
a purpose rendered me by contact.
And so, nearby
I lifted up another piece I'd made
then more, discarding those that held
no recognition for my skin
and in this fascination left the course I'd walked upon
and, hence, was occupied for quite some time.
It was not long before
I saw I could not carry every tool
no longer simply Mine to me
and, more selective in my choices
added thus to my absorption
and the time.
Next, I saw I could not reject randomly
for often weight or shape disturbed a balance
into slides of rubble onto space
where I engaged.
I have come to see that it was then
that practice I began, determination
if a tool were mine while still I stood beside its hole
returning it to fill that void
if not.
I did not pause, in fact
this evolution was to go unmarked
but soon it lent a ragged face to edges on my way
as tools I chose left bites of emptiness behind
as I progressed into the mound.
There is no way to say how long
I labored in this task —Myself, I felt
no sense of time, enamored so was I
and there, of course, were moments
when I thought I must be done
seeing ordinary slag ahead when
just
I would perceive another piece of mine
off to the side.
As time is marked by compass, I have come to see
that at this business I was hunched
extraordinary spans.
It was a juncture to an unfamiliar path
at which I stopped to notice such
and looked across the way that I had been.
I turned to see where I had come
in terms of where I'd found the first
and —new, exposed— a by-pass stretched
beyond the distant sky:
From my feet it clear and level snaked
between two jigsawed cliffs diffusing sun,
debris half-dim when I had left it lie.
© 1994/23 August 2007, Sugarpie Rabbit Draft here
Next The Odyssey of the Peerless Idiot Back
In the Face of Love: The Book of the Beloved
SPR © 14 February 2007, Sugarpie Rabbit
9 Comment(s), this entry.
Bravenet Blog 
Blog Community
Get a Free Blog
Manage your Blog
bravenet.com