Incense
The hum in the head does not say Anything except deceased cells, fear In the hair follicles, dust in the mind. There is of course a song, then a picture Loud and brave, beauty and history- I hang my thoughts on the computer thing The images there are larger than my life And every one’s life and river and water Mountains and people dead and Sanskrit Chants addressed to the dead, my people, Who are no longer my people, except Through the connectivity of a dark priest. There are clay-pots of bones and boats In the holy rivers and priest chanting. We have thought of transience and rain Rivers overflowing on the highways Dismal failures and temporary successes Then finally some beauty-talk in art And literature, deep thoughts, mystery And everything coming to an end As though there was no beginning. Yet the colors went on all the while And they smelled nice like incense.
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Poetry based upon actual experiences, not one thought up in the intellectual aridness of a pseudo-thinker. Words as they mean in the specific context of recollected thought or image , not meaning several things at a time but that which re-creates an aura or a haze of an earlier experience.
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