Friday, April 12, 2013

Breakage

At what point does the human spirit break?

I don't mean bend.  I mean break. 
At what point is the damage too much to recover? 
At what point do you just stop trying to start over? 
At what point do you just stop trying to do anything but forget? 
At what point do you take your fragmented fleshless self
and bury it deep into the earth,
hoping to never see any semblance of what once was again?

Is it this point? 
Or did you reach that point long ago and are too spiritless to remember?

Is it recoverable?

I imagine not. 
Not if you don't want it to be anyway.
And why would you want it to be anywhere
but nestled in the warm earth
inches away from volcanic destruction?

So far removed from those moments.
Those vital, life-sustaining discourses.
So far removed from myself.  From yourself.  From everything.
Even the trees.

Somewhere between
unreliable knowledge
 moments
theory
 experience
and practice
 breath
there might be an answer
 love

Who are you to tell me I am wrong.
I am not wrong.
There is beauty in that fissure
There is beauty in that split dawn
In those bleeding seeds of life
In our brokenness
In our never togetherness
 but beauty is not an answer
 even if Mr. Lawrence was not wrong

It will all be over soon enough
so we do what we've always done

We carry on

And try to remember when forgetting is easy
And try to forget when remembering won't quit

4 comments:

  1. one of the best poems i've read all week. love it.

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    1. Well, thank you very much. I took a gander o'er yonder at your stuff, but could not find a sub button which is a shame because much of your writing is perfect beast food. :/

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  2. my poetry is atrocious. the words just fall onto the paper like that. i think it's my alter ego writing. in reality, i am a perfect english gentleman. but i appreciate your feedback, thank you ever so kindly :-)

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    1. The only thing more rare than a woman who likes her own photograph is a poet(ess) who thinks (s)he writes well. Alter ego or no, it's a part of something anyway. If poetry was ever anything aside from either atrocious or floral, it was instictive and primal. You seem to write from that space, I write from somewhere edging a similar vulgarity but mostly from just the darker corners of my adled mind. Lately though, poetry and I haven't been on speaking terms... yet I can feel her feathery arms reaching for me through the ether, despite my calloused desire to remain free from her spiraling grasp. She can be such a bitch like that. You're welcome, but seriously see about fixing that sub button, unless it's an error on my end, in which case I'll see about fixing my ability to find it. :)

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