Where does this handful,,,

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Open Poetry #48

Where does this handful,,,

KJOTT
Member

since 2012-12-26

Posts 87
Canada

0 posted 2013-02-05 01:25 AM

.

Where does this handful of stone end? Shall I say
it ends where my fingers end? Where my eyes are wont
to see? Where my tongue tells by twists and turns?
Where my nostrils flare? These are not the same.

I smell this stone from far away on a hot
and summer day when afternoon rains fall
and roil an earthy must before it washes clean.
So does it end with me? And if I split myself
and stand at every corner of that universe
on that selfsame summer day with that selfsame
afternoon rain — will it end with me?
Where does this stony bit end? Does it end with
a word — There! Or — Here!

And where does it begin? I believe it may
begin, for me, with me would I allow.
I think it ends in failures to perceive
where densities of interest meet.
I admire the lotus-stone in my empty hand.
That portion of its soul I hold. That portion
of its beingness that fills all creation
except where it has stopped or slowed enough
to perceive at any speed. The speed of perception.
The true speed of light. The wavelengths of laughter
and stone. The line beneath any breast and any thigh
and any thing. I digress.

The stone has slipped. While the density shifts.
Where inertia has failed. Where I have turned
from corner to corner of the universe
and looked away and then seen you and having nothing
to say except hello I may seize upon my stone —
the part I love, and say — you see — This is where I begin.
This is where I end. This is where. Until again.
And in that span I smell you. I taste you. I hold you.
The density of my interest. The volume
of my affinity. You could never end.
Your beginning was before mine. For that I praise
and curse that you might look away. Just as I have done.

Does this stone end? Does it begin? For that,
where does begin begin if not its end?
If not with us then who? But this stone is stone
there is no doubt. It falls while I rise. It rises
while I rise. It has velocity. It gives back
light. It bends the universe. It has location
from which it expands to fill all space not
already filled with the loci of otherness.
And even there it bends to will.

Does this stone have an edge? If it does then so must I.
Else how might I perceive but for you, hello
and interest's sake except to admire at your locus
an other-stone? My lotus-stone gives way.
Your own fills my breadth of vision. A torrent.
An avalanche. A fissure in nothingness.
A co-creation of All. This theatre.
Our audience of proto stone. We have become
enough to waste them and soon enough each other.
Now standing with this stone — but a twirling
beacon of lostness — to wonder by, in search
again for your wavelengths of affinity.
Where you might have left them. Where I might have left mine.
The curves beneath our frequencies. The pitch and roll
of their design. Their width. In all that vastness,
a dimple of stone — and for that, I have missed you.

.

[This message has been edited by KJOTT (02-05-2013 02:13 AM).]

OLIAS
Senior Member

since 2000-06-20

Posts 1090
Pearl city Iowa

1 posted 2013-02-05 04:27 PM

Hmmm... I have read this through a few times and I have to admit I don't understand, I get a feeling of intensity and loss and maybe that's enough. So I like, well written.

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