Thursday, June 19, 2014

Bill Pearlman:


The field always opening
the multiplicities because no vision
occluded, but continues forward
against the odds. Mind
mattering excessively as ever
coming up short.
            Old friend with dementia
can’t recall his stomach illness,
has lost its content… Better?
Yet we prize memory,
what you said that mattered.

But time for loss,
upending desire, deleterious
the gamble of soul at odds
with time & decay

Live with it, confused
but synched with change
the engine returned to idle


But how else make sense
when all’s moving so much
when all this here & now becomes
the insufferably vanishing
          so quickly
and we are left unrepaired—

Something must arise in us,
spending these instances of energy
in the waking dream of continuum

mindless at times, running
like a swirling clock hand
across aeons, beings striving
to know more, feel the news
of our ongoing interests, the world
just enough with us,
catching our fleeting joys
and the passings, the sorrows,
the conquests, the births
the inner expanses of living
just as they’re given


But memory, what of it?
The silent and potent movement
immediately there in time
   sitting across from a warrior-poet
whose work is juxtaposition
     or angling to receive
a sign of significant form

requisite diligence that matters
making a crossed referential
or mild shaping of figure
making sense, rising
to the occasion—
And comic or tragic, getting down
the truthful components, the drive
to form the intense cohesion
elemental, embodied & right
on the particulars

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