free write

what is it they say about beginnings nothing ever really starts not after birth that all moments lead from the first agonizing push outward we are set—on set—out set—free in the trap of time that carries forward like the drag of a net pulled tidily

surround us at first—kicking then—crawling then—stumbling towards the second salient fact hidden at the only end that matters, what only end is impermeable. I have been wrestling with this snare as others have

been trying to give the movement pause and each thrash a scar on the sea floor a start a new way a difference in the path towards the final ledge that chasm yawning so indifferent to the struggle that hauls towards the lip so full of the illusion of punctuation of—finishing and initiating of—hiding and emerging from one furrow to the other that drag still inexorable but almost a climate almost a constant that does not register change but are we obsessed with making—a change making—it better making—a difference what shows in the path towards the end they say, they say no two ways are the same. I, “I”, i have been trying to start again ignoring the sea floor the gill net the time the furrows have been focusing on the surface

what calls you out another illusion for it is all water floor to heaven sphere perfectly enclosed no air to—speak of no tale to—tell a fable a phantasm thrashing around stumbling on the floor looking up not forward or back. but all the same.


~ by A Mundi on May 20, 2010.

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