It is the process of gestation,
An abstract phenomenon
That is hereby depicted in plain
Words, straightforwardly.
The adherence to the thoughts
As they arise, the stripping
Off of the layers and the muck,
The modernist mumblings,
The ego disguised as genius —
For only Tumult, Son of Thunder,
Knows well the whirling dervish
And dances well into the night.
It is the schoolboy become artist,
The transformation of the human
Into the cockroach or the sun
Or the sunset or the mulberry,
Into the whole luminous shebang,
Sanity still intact, if possible,
Raw heart extended and exploded,
Guts spread out upon the pavement.
It is, simply put, the process of
Becoming, this so-called work
We do on ourselves, constantly,
Tirelessly, our observing minds
In headlong effort to represent our
Inner landscapes of convergence,
Not to save one from the empty wheel,
— to point it out, to calmly cry out,
Look! there is no other, there is no
Black hole, there is no you-dream,
There are only our quotidian saviors,
Only coffee, and perpetual gestation.
