Just a couple more of my attempts at "Not Poetry." More like broken prose where, also hopefully, the breaks are in the right places.
The Spirit Of You
You didn't know this was true
That there really really is
a spirit of you.
The potential of what
you can be
and do is played,
the multi-versed chorus,
out across the infinites between
the variations of nothing,
to anything.
And every instance,
copied at the start,
grows to be played,
or playing, stays
echoed through the never
ending now.
And how you play
or were played, lingers,
helping or hindering,
depending on how true
most of you were
to you.
Will you listen
to what the true
you yearns to
play through?
Be a part
of your grand band
of players,
or just lose faith
with the greater
of you that could
have been banded to.
A Category Five Reality
Whirling shards
roiling around the core;
the hurricanes of idea
tornados twisting
so many fragments,
and fragmenters flashing
thoughts that hope
to echo feelings,
as much as descriptives
snatched,
torn from any continuity.
My mind
and the maddening
matrix that made it.
Shit and shinola
fact and fiction
smoke, sweat, and bloody
mosaic mirrors,
always shifting;
the angles and dangles
juxtaposing
every juxtaposition
cutting and colliding endlessly.
All of it roaring,
at the tearing away
and crashing into
thin membranes of cognition.
And still
can it be
that connections are made?
The miracle all
the more maddening
by the flights
of floundering,
meanings chasing words,
to articulate
a small thread of understanding
out of all of the chaos,
which itself flutters
away in the torrent.
Can it ever be
caught
by another mind
to stitch together
a common weave
to hold
something shared?
A way to meaning
what we mean
to agree to?
Take the turn
of what we toil
to boil
in what we think
we know, accelerating
off the electric burner.
To find the calm
within the eye
that sees a better vision
of how to find
the making
our way?
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