March 15, 2010 § Leave a comment
Would the title be ‘The Death of a Scientific Man’ if Willy Loman was a 21st Century artist with poetic currency.
Or is the title just working to say something you already understand in other words.
An apology for our fragility.
An alibi for our vigilance.
A homily on our endless curiosity.
A eulogy for our mortal angst.
A mural of our communal loneliness.
A stifled sob in the light of beauty.
An outsider’s view of a kaleidoscopic inside.
An exercise in learning to die yesterday.
And the moment life speaks, couched on the street of a theater city.
Obscurity examined with careful attendance.
I think it might be too much.
Everything is Everything.
Picking at life’s plumbing, calling things as they seem right, saying it as it is, seeing it as it is.
Or as it appears. To you when you watch carefully and try to understand your psychosis within its grammar.
When your pupils dilate so wide open, your eyes need help tearing up the visions of yourself. Laid out bare.
Learning to see how you seem to another multiplied by another multiplied by another. Multiplying together.
Borne towards the truth in a saga of existential redundancy. Single words for many words with the same import.
Single lives of collective loneliness telling stories of duplicated instances of handicaps and windfalls.
Undeserved yet triggered by your choice to face your truth or theirs or ours or what you think is real.
Everyone is disappointing, the more you know someone.
Each a lead in your story for you to watch yourself play.
Out there in the world, an imagined stage where you want to believe the others are watching.
Hear your inner voice echo from the world and soon it will be the only voice guiding your every action.
Your mind aches with the knowing from a time burnt fondness in your heart.
You love easily and how easily you are loved.
7:43, 7:44, Now you are gone.