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The Insufficiency of Words (to Express What I Mean) (A Poem in Two Parts)

The Insufficiency of Words (to Express What I Mean)
 (A Poem in Two Parts)


Like A Child

Again unsettled
      “what is this,” I bellowed.
            “The swollen soul so heaving!”
I cannot escape this reasoning
      This circular conflict
            Of my desire pulses
Like the very veins of mine
                        Pulse with life.
      This is the lie I’ve called love,
            A swelling of the soul,
      “A swelling that must cease or die!”
Ancient evil of mind, many minds of men
            I ache and hate thee won.
      You are my omen,
            My ill-fate of an unfaithful conscience
      Insufficient for your work of making
            Me a man;
                  Fellow fall and be gone,
              Ancient rebellion:
      My obnoxious right arm
              “Sever me!” It cries
                  in mocking vanity.
      “scorn you, I do” say under my voice
“but it’s so attached,” shouldn’t I leave
       it like that?
Ancient evil, scorpion of day,
      The sting, this serum, what
A mad mix in me.
      That I would rot and fall, this
      Arm that cannot save—
I am Jacob’s child, and I
              Intend to keep it that way.
But it’s here it stays,
      In my intentions, in my enduring
      Days, like the folly of all things,
              Reason and Faith play
Like children.


There is a Notion, Outside of this, Should You Choose it.

      “Unless your faith is firm,
      I cannot make you stand firm.”

Ugh!  The ancient practice of originality
      Plagues us
              I pray and I forget
      Or better yet
              I practice forgetfulness
           On a circuit track
                  Like the sun runs it’s course;
      So pray I forget.
                        And pray hard, dear brother,
           Because our minds have known
           More than we’ve intended to know.
Scrape the passion
      From behind our eyelids
              They are closed to the public
           All they see is my face.
                  Everything I hate,
         Is what they make of me.
“He’s so serene” “So peaceful”
           “So self-assured”
“Do not lie to me anymore!” I yellow
      Cannot escape.
              The future licks it’s lips
                              A prostitute.
                                    An addict.
                                                A place
Where fears might come true
         And dreams are spattered
      At father fear’s feet
              Like some sort of
      We are much more religious
              Than we believe.
(that wordless place)
      the pen I cannot escape
I am tired of putting meaning
           On meaning things.

      Crumpled sheets.
              Shoe laces.
         Double-check mental list.
           Think to pause
              (note: not pause to think)
me go; me leave
Have we lost our minds completely?
Have we completely lost our minds?
      Rank to me
              The structure of things
                  And I will show you
              What unimportant means
         <less words
                     more free>
can anyone define freedom for me?
      Seriously lacking anything
         Completely necessary
              For completing,
                  It mocks.
Hour stranguage ist empozidle
      (funnely you should mention it!)
      that’s exactly what I was tinkering
to say I just couldn’t _____ the
      ______(s) for it.
         silly? Trite? So it seems
         to be in our conversation, affirming
         what we just said. Inefficient?
         Insufficient? Unrelient?
Oh where are the ancients when
      They are needed!
         Sweet perfume
              And melody
What hand can stir thee?
         Just pushed along,
              Many men who are only
              Noticing what has always been.
Why so interested? It’s
Just existing.
                  No big deal.
“Hey, come’on, why still unsettled?”
      (it’s because these questions
           beg to be asked!) but you would
                                                                        never say that
Obvious, isn’t it, how simple
the simple life can be.
      Yet somewhere, far away,
         A voice is screaming
        like nails on a chalkboard
              or a horror movie
                  you attempt to squeeze
        and clench your teeth
   like a fist
soon,                      you                        hope,               you’ll
swear                     that                        it                      never                           even
existed                                                                         (butit’sjustcrowdedoverhere
till one day, on a normal morning, everyone arrives, happy and good as usual, with
their coffee cups and forgotten-to-brush-in-a-rush teeth, stained yellow from the drink.
Mid-afternoon you realize Hal never showed for the one o’clock as you glance at his
Desk he kicks down the doors with an AK-47 and shoots everyone who ever
smiled at him.
           (there’s some unnerved
                     at that thought.
How he suddenly went from a “genuinely
Good person” to “hell bent and wicked”
We all are Baptist preachers at the right
moment.  Silly, no? to think we know
those around us, to joke, to poke fun,
to spin and speak of politics in some
residential limerick that found us on the
internet and now is shaping our very
thought and decision. And we blame
our government!
      When can fault be fault.
      Maybe when truth is truth.
      Truth, the ancients seemed to get it,
      “but things now are somuchmore
        complicated” it almost says itself,
      maybe we’re just further from it.
      profound? I doubt it.
      Profundity is never what
      It seems to be.
                              Things are
      Much worse.
           Sorry to be the bearer
        Of bad news.
If any of us really did get better, we
Would only die of depression and
Lonliness, worn away by the contrast
Of us from fellow men.  Dangerous,
Dangerous is goodness, and any notion
   Of perfection
           Can cause the mind to play games
          And now, such games,
              Are never played,
           Though they play.
                    We suffer from
                  Maybe all suffering
           Could be
              To be
                        This very
              Black and white
   But I guess that’s the funny thing
           About words
              They turn and twist
                    Like a haucking
                       Gagging tongue
            Too swollen for it’s mouth.
                Here, our words reside,
        (and many once pointed raised hands
         fall; their answer echoes against
         the walls of their hearts…)
           silence is profound.

                  Allow it to sneak in
                    To come to fruition
                And you
                  Will find
           The greatest
                    Wrestling match
                       Will ever
The day that Jacob became
   Israel, what ends to him
      We owe, the moan of
Michelangelo, the epiphanies
   Of Thoreau,
           What rote?
                              What song?
                  What pirrioette?
      Can lay claim to boast of this?
That he who hath wrestled with
God, is he that will endureth.))

Isaiah 7:9


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