More lost thoughts

 

Lostness  (6)   1977

 

 

Blue sky, but the moon is already up.  An unutterable stillness cut into its second. Beauty I live for, yet cannot reach.

 

Do we ask what play is for?  Why ask what art is for.

My life was a performance without an audience.

What karma have I been paying?  Perhaps, one day, I shall manage to forgive myself.

Happiness is not my vocation: I leave it to others.  Life is a wince through the bones.

I resent meaningless toil, unless unavoidable. Better to confront the problems of freedom. We need a utopia to see if it is bearable.

 

Creativity as rebellion against death?  An art of mind improvising itself?

 

This time I tried to play the game their way
but the big machine had painted my ass with cement.

Pretending to be normal is a full-time job.

Footprints wind toward the horizon. My own trail, stretching out before me.

Death has no morality. Nothing can be asked of nothing. Or a universe seen as oppressive neutrality.

 

Toothpick fingertips of a word
almost remembered
almost touched.

 

 

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