Yet To Be

It could have been a distinct world, calmly mushy
but it isn’t. We repeat the intolerance, fake 
information to carry on angry convictions, rake
the weed we believe is theirs, faithfully reject 
that it actually fell from our trees, wind blew
it upon their garden. We assume irresponsibly,
dare blame the other garden for our dry weed. 

The path toward our door is adorned by solar 
lanterns. We bought them to light our tiptoeing. 
It's fading. Without commitment to unconditional 
sources of energy, we’ll fall ill as we can’t contain
disease in a plastic bag forever. We’re stuck in old
streetcars, sell their tickets as if trendy, pretend 
yoga mats are yoga poses. We are fused to a desire 
that never fulfills itself. After a culmination,
the void replaces what evaporated. Without water, 
how will we cool our machines? The void devours 
through a spur of homelessness. Haters spread gospel
of self-righteousness. The naked can’t defend
themselves from the imposition of too much sugar,
corrosion, or a few carrots, a lack of pursuit.1 Churches, endowed to provide, eat scarlet squares. If poverty of spirit is vowed, why is physicality denied the sacredness of eternal creativity; dime for a minute? We’re the saddest, as poor as it can be, never humble enough to realize that the body needs to be tamed so thoughts can follow. I speak not of desire but of example. The WE becomes an I as the days shorten. It’s never satisfied, until I can’t contain my awe, even after denying I mourn. As fresh debates spark, cycling arguments based on delirious presumptions spur back to haunt me. Even if I stay clear of mind, they enjoy reminding me I can’t be free from their act, a dime a minute. I ignore them when I have to. I do so by hearing the silence I’ve tamed by tiring the body, setting new boundaries, tiring thoughts, memorizing rhymes despite miscalculating. Langue Inconnu allows me to re-measure the i, I re-invent. Completely tired, I’m still bothered when I hear either the disastrous or superfluous chatter that could matter if only… I wish I could tell them what they’re missing, but I can’t. No one hears poetry growing. I tell about the I, the beauty of our ugliness. I tell them about the mountain's birth after it has been burnt as incense2. I tell them how bad graffiti3 responds to the inability of ours to see beyond the dread. Either we’re either too this or too that, it’s not enough to be bare and stung from what so-called adults do. I’m one, would you say? I’m growing. How can they stand proud of their adultness and deny trees crying hope, a chance to be themselves? If we can’t see beyond the dread we hold, we’ll never heal. We’ve got to see the most devious in us. What most wants to be hidden, does so because if unveiled, a pain unmistakably deep will give rise imperatively to a raw beginning. That’s where love, yes, that bastard love,4 love that pushes us to crave what is impossible to be, can flourish even after so-called adults have lit us up as incense against our will, even after being grated against the tar of oil sands. That’s why I am bad poetry and I’m not ashamed of being, but one day… I’ll be glorious because there’s no growth until I accept ultimate defeat. I will no longer desire to master you. 5 I will no longer will to power. 6 I will will to love. 7 Even when that love ends up bastardizing who I once wished to become, I choose to be a “yet-to-be”, being unfolding, enfolding, unfolding an idea, enfold, enfolding an idea, unfold. 8 There’s no final fate, but a will to love it, mistakes, badness, all “yet-to-be” will fix what I’ve yet to know I’ve gotta fix soon and some times to hate only to realize harm comes one's way hating that's what yet-to-be does... fix mistakes perfection? if there's no grave, it's not here by then even what hate would have left me would have left me by then even what love would I had been left with would I hope tucked me in