I just can’t seem to arrange the food of thought in small enough bites for others to swallow reality as I seeze. It is jussa conundrum of collage anyway, all them molecules and atoms runnin’ circles round theyselves. And life? That stuff getsum ku-Razie. And politics? Right now, it’s a drug making everything appear as Good or Evil.
Sorry Bob (my fictionalized demonic mentor, the mean father I never had). Sorry if “the Sublime” gives you a headache. I love you anyway. After all half the world lives in fear their take on reality ain’t quite right, so they hold on so tight that they squeeze all the humanity out of truth. Or grab someone else’s truth. Or just get fascinated with typing or grammar or if gifted and properly trained sign up as soldier for some industry.
Pablo Picasso revealed to an interviewer once that part of his method and motivation was reaction. Reaction against something. Often, he continued, he reacted against his own last body of work. It shocked me ‘cuz “reactionary” so often described a dull witted obsessive. My bad. Them’s two different words.
With no further ado, Robbie, I dedicate, this poem, doggey as it may be, to you. And if you truly love me too, then show it. Translate whatever it is I am trying to say and just can’t… into simple prose.
But don’t post anything original here, unless you are tougher of hyde than a Jekyl Island island aligator. Peace, brother.
Hath much spoiled
and as notions of deity
slay by fanaticism’s intolerance
so doth justice and virtue
imprison if adopted
Humor, on the other hand
the seductress of vigor
gliding with grace
from bondage toward lofty detachment
As giggles mimic champagne bubbles
So do troubles doused with laughter
Rise to the surface and burst
Kissing on whiff noses
Inhaled and savored
Long past scent
a stumble oft prevents a fall
Image Credit: Pablo Picasso Portrait de l’homme à l’épée et à la fleur 1969. © 2009 Estate of Pablo Picasso / Gagosian Gallery