Tag: prose poem

my name is rajon

it has always been so and will always be so. i was never born and will never die. there is no such thing as a beginning, there is no such thing as an ending. and my name will remain as it is forever.

there are different sized infinities. to an ant, the yard is an infinity. to a child, the house is an infinity. to a serpent the amazon is an infinity. therefore, i may be wrong. there may be a beginning and, possibly, an end, but it is so far beyond my perception that it may as well not exist. and so i will sleep as blisslessly as possible into the unknown until the monster floats to the surface and bites me again and i am faced with annihilation. usually, though, all it takes is a gift. i turn round, smile, and give the big baby a gift, and we are all good until the next time.

can one request a mystical experience?

ball bearings. he used to hold ball bearings in his hand then doze off until he let go of the bearings and they clattered to the floor waking him up. does that mean he remained in a diffuse state of mind? does that mean he reached the twilight between the focused tunnel vision mind and the broad diffuse open mind – the one where problems are solved in our absence? and if it is the latter, how did he stay there? what is the trick for staying there because that is what i really need. and is that what happens when you don’t look at the screen when writing. no, that is the editor, only the inner editor. the one who scribbles lines through entire sections of my manuscript. and how well does it know me if it takes out those parts most important to me. how much is that, i mean, maybe it is correct. maybe i am mistaken, again, and it sees what i want to write. that what it has left is what is under the the pond i built when i didn’t know. is it because i am blind or is it because i am showing more than i imagine. i hope it is the last of these two.

consciousness, no punctuation, a wild horse

consciousness, no punctuation, a wild horse who, for some reason, raises one foreleg higher than the other but looks absolutely beautiful in her movement gliding across the plains of the clues. but here is where i get off track, here is where i begin to try. surrealists can be fascists right? and by the way, drop the need to come to an ending. i guarantee surrealists could give a shit about endings, about tying everything up. and here i am off on a thought again and i can see how thoughts interfere with writing. slowing down helps so much. i speed up whenever i’m in the throes of a thought and that derails my journey. trump’s hair. it’s on fire at times and other times it’s a sand castle waiting to be washed away but that will not happen. you cannot catch something which is not a solid body, you can only trace its decay.