Criptic Critic Conscience and Known for it

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Sunny Day

There is nothing for me to do on perfect days.
When the surf is up and the wind has
disappeared, the sun is still and There's not a
cloud in the sky. When I have time to
do anything this day renders me, delivers me
inadequate. I have no response, there is nothing
I can do except wait for the day or my
my heart to stop, to look into perfection, to
catch glimpses of eternity - blue sky night -
abstraction cleared, this abyss knows no human
as I am, a day like this would have a ceremony
lost now like sewers to the middle ages, Everything
on this day hurts - breath is drawn short, beauty bright
the eye filled like a glass over flowing, the
shear success of it all everything with out me.
It is before and after - I can only choose to
climb into it's bossom and even this simple
task is beyond me, my schooling in Rhythm
Removing my base for dance - something akin to wanting
to gut ones self and offer thy organs to the drying
of the sun seems close - today a kind of doorway
left open, always open, here all along no special
memory, or application for membership needed. It's simply
arrived and there's no where to hide - though I've tried
all day - meaningless, tasks, House cat saying tiger tiger
tiger - I AM SO STUCK. To live is to compete
and I who can take on the best see folly in this
action so much so life as it is, is all foolish.

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