There and days and there are times and there are poems that make me do things like this. Talk like this, fragmented, thinking like the string theory and forever interconnecting myself with myself. The times like this are the moments before sunset when the sun is still alive in its fervor, still in domination of the daytime sky, still exalted Helios. However, the sun begins its descent behind buildings; it is hidden, but its power still reigns (like aristocrats in agrarian times). The sky is still triumphantly blue, signaling daytime and time continuum, but where is the instigator of the light? I can not continue like this and I can not halt.
Anyhow, here is an excerpt of a poem that puts me in such, the cyclical form of rumination and regurgitation:
Da kine for me is the moment when
things extend beyond you and me
and into the rest of the world. It is
the thing.
Like two who love each other
breaking eye contact and coming
out of that love and back into the
conversation.
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