chasm diegesis

there was a chasm of loneliness
and it bore my name
and I decided to fill it with tears
hoping to reach the surface

only sorrow did not quench that thirst
and my tears had to be hope bound
for what is sorrow if not a testament
to hope? We will meet unfairness and injustice
that is how human systems work
but the meta of you was designed not
to follow that rule. Believe in God or believe in greater dimensions
that supersede what holds the matter and makes you closer
to the holy

I managed to make my chasm a ocean
I made it into something fertile
for only I lived this life
and I know it held meaning
slings and bows now serve my soldiers.—

forgotton, write

I have forgotten how to write; I borrow from words of favourite authors or poets, online, offline, in print — I stalk, in a friendly way, the vocabulary emitted by friends in the ozone as my side of the world looks at needing patches of effusions on that crystalline-dark matter of a magically scientific field that puts us under some other feelings like the six degrees of separation; I lust after knowledge, under both the labels of the arcane and the modern: a suddenness makes me me feel unhappy, a preparation makes me unhappy.

I have forgotten how to write. So I look at wordpress pages, tumblr posts and reblogs and quotes to feed this appetite in me whose parenthesis seems to be only craving but non-sustainable; my eco-green planning turning to urbane shanty — I look for verdian pots in fanfiction oeuvres and cul-de-sacs of myself and others. I read old work of others, and new, revisit old haunts and seem to find new. I write fanfiction myself because a novel is not for me now though a fanfiction with my own ideas is writing especially if the story of the original is filled with ambiguity (fanfiction on all genres, shows, formats is writing even if it’s 50 shades of practice).

I have forgotten how to write. That is poem seems so bad. I am sorry if I am not witty. But I have never truly boasted intelligence unless it be boasted for me. And all the mathematicians and physics majors and physicians and doctors and lawyers and engineers whose crafts matter more than mine I wonder how in that quantum googolplex do my profession really counts? To the modern mind I may be dumb and pretty obsolete like a cartographer sailing seas using the stars when there are radio shacks and lighthouses on a whimsy. Yet I cannot be a cartographer for the moon, for that would probably be a cartographer for billetdeaux.

I have forgotten how to write. Yet I imagine faces of the moon as one large phasic typewriter. And somewhere along Mars neophyte water sprites may be becoming molecules for new, imaginary oceans.▬

Perhaps, I have forgotten how to write…▬