“All Kinds of Voyages”, October 18th, 2011 (c. 9.20pm)
“It’s all suffused with meaning, there’s no doubt,
I always know what I’m talking about.”
These words appear in my mind as if someone else
Has said them, thought them,
Allowed them to suffuse their very being,
So that, when once again the process is complete,
There is no telling, especially not for me,
Which is the victor: me, or my convictions.
It’s not true, though; though there are
Very definite answers
To the questions of where and when,
And, more importantly,
More scientifically, how.
Why is a fertile soil of lyrical wax;
It festers and it tastes of burnt-out candles;
When you finish it, you’re left once more in the dark.
What is a tangle of scientific definitions,
A faceless, boring soup of these and thats,
Which is just a word, to differentiate
Between two things that may be three, or more,
A life-size drawer in the file cabinet of a dollhouse.
Who are you?
Just a plethora of images,
Of streaming drops of history on a conveyor belt,
That speeds quickly across the room
And into the darkness on the other side;
Where it is quietly checked for guns and ammo,
Basically, things that mark you out,
As someone to watch, someone whose
Profile is unknown, whose image is flickering.
Or: a set of experiences, watching over you,
Telling you which road to take
Even when you’re in the middle of a forest.
Or: a set of principles, which seem so steady
But bend and break as winds pick up around you;
Which hold only until they reach the place
Where the wind howls, and trees of ancient forest rule
Bend down and break before its baying cries;
Who are you always, somewhere windy, dies
- And then it has to rise again from ash
That has forgotten your face, forgotten those experiences
Where you once were, who you once were, how you once were,
What you once were, which you once were, why you once were –
Whether you once were. The wind is asking questions,
Wherever it is. Answers are in the dark, and when you switch the light on, flooding relief –
Is nowhere to be found. You see the lines of answers;
Their shadow now a hulking, fluid shape
That crouches in the half-light you’ve created
By throwing on a switch. Who are you, really?
A shadow in a cradle, in a toyroom, in a bedroom,
In a schoolyard, in a university campus dorm room,
Where, as the name suggests, you sleep,
And think only of where, because to think of who
Would be to test the winds, to let them blow you,
To succumb to them, make them a gentle breeze,
And float upon them; float away with ease.
Cycles repeat. If you are the rain,
You soak into the sky and fall back down,
No matter how you try to cling to earth,
You’re always fluid, always changing
Between two forms, or a short few anyway;
Gas, solid, liquid. Let the wind dry you out.
Let the wind show you
Just exactly what it is
You’re talking about.
