kim aaron

still is the written word

eyes in all heads, to be looked out of

off the coast of Japan
she put her hand upon my back
unfettered, she sd
unfettered.
 
the mountains roll to the North, wearing the clouds,
and I come to the geography of it, the
biology of my place my city
      (and I wonder)
where and when and why, and
the city spread out beneath the sky
      (where we went wrong)
 
 
the mind mirror gasps at complexity, seeks out
those exquisite minutiae that mean food shelter or replication
how terrifying when the mirror met its match
when
the two mirrors facing each other, exploding
down into one another
as the mind turned round and saw itself
 
this is what it means to be sapiens
 
 
 
I'm a poet.
I've no time to argue the necessity of empirical observation.
my obsession are the liminal lifelights
when we stopped thinking mammal
started singing God.
 
      the particular path to revelation is without meaning
      the journey is all
               readiness
 
 
So I come back to my city, my geography
off the coast of Japan
Place is my home.
Burrard comes up, splitting the city
and the diesel tankers glide between the lions,
gorging their bellies on wheat.
 
Hometown, even
my bones know it—
like an old lover
new and familiar, always
 
 
still it comes back to her word
unfettered.
Trapped in the explosion of mirrors
 
self-awareness is.
 
 
Beyond the traffic of it, beyond
the honking whining bitching
in the heat
Downtown, there is Place
beside the concrete courthouse,
to reflect
 
the Buddha sits with right hand on left
all others opposite
because the right is the hand of action, must be still
      here's something
 
we know here, off the coast of Japan,
the penalty of action.
we know it more ways than I have words to write them
 
it remains then, to live
left-handed.
 
 
* * *
 
 
Dr. Maud sd
'no-one wants to learn any longer, for the sake of it'
I leaned across the table, sd
'I do'
 
the consequences are, of course,
enormous
to commit is to dig your feet in, not be
budged.
 
Escape? go ask the bean sandwich
Prozac possibility delights not me
no, nor woman neither; though, by your smiling...
 
      The trap is not that we have problems
      but that we have problems that we have problems
 
      off the coast of Japan
      only a small step to India
      the mirrors' echo:
      BAOUM BAOUM
      repeat ad nauseam
 
it is not to solve problems but leave them
o my people!
those caves would shout back silence
and with silence comes
peace with peace
bliss
 
this, my people,
is what it means to be God!
 
 
off the coast of Japan—my Hometown
she put her hand upon my shoulder, peace
she sd
bliss
unfettered
 
the lady, Orlando

1 Comment

  1. Brilliant! I’m so happy to discover your writings!

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