Saturday, February 21, 2015

Monkey see, monkey do. What do you see in what you do, and what should you say about it?

I am
a monkey typing,
having a hand
in handle and
leveraging hammers
as the keys
for thinking
on, or assuming,

What do I
Succeed or fail upon
as I stumble
over the chances
of meaning?
What credit
is creditable?
Where does the messenger
stand in the genius
of what makes

Is it simply
the will to keep
with ego enough
to direct a continuing
faith in the gamble
that what I feel,
is real
in the casts of stone
staged in the eternal play
of questions well
beyond our grasp,
even as we reach
for the ownership
of answers?

I own
only what I realize
in the choices
I swing from.
But what
do I hope for?
Someone else
to catch on?
of what is obvious
even as it hides
in plain site?
As part
and parcel
of all the other
swingers in the nous
choking on validation.

Everybody wants
a dig me, but
nobody wants
to come down
and be grounded,
time grinding
out in the munch
of mulch that living
makes of blood and bone
for the only creativity
that matters
or gives gravity
to any risk
of letting go.

So many precious
pretensions to cling to
as in assuming
any mantle of messenger
or mandate for message,
in the first place;
more than monkeys
throwing shit around
and wishing
it could leverage anything.

Maybe we can
earn the hope
in living
well grounded
with grit enough
to keep coming
back to make
and break
and be broken again,
holding passionately
to our grief
as we let go
of what we love,
risking the fallout
of grasping
that and every other
branch that passion finds
a risk for.
Always listening
with every fiber
for a message
that requires no audience
and had to be
expressed because
we owned the choices,
accepted the pain
creating the will
to have faith

in what was realized.

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