Monday, February 18, 2013

Balaclava


My friend called in this evening time
when I was wrapping up for the day,
and beginning to slip to Otherland,
swim in the burrows and cat-flying molehills,
into the subconscious pathways of mental cities.

He asked me meandering is not easy.
He asked me for change, and retibution.
He asked me if younger people are cocky, and selfish.
He asked me for understanding.
He asked me ten thousand questions, all abound with picture frames, illusory glasses.
He asked what he had to ask, what he meant were difficult questions, which he thought about day and night.

My answers were simple.
Into the darkness and out of the light, my answers were not double, or triple.
Younger flesh is smoother flesh, I answered.
The greatest saints are more selfish, I answered.
If you look at old and young together hanging out, it's the old that is steamy, cocky,  unclear, bavarde, ill-posed, prostituted, caring too much, hiding, fighting, expecting, I answered.
Worst of all, the old are encouraging, as if they have tamed life, and charmed it, and answered all its questions.
Flowers don't grow, flowers don't grow, the earth starts growing.

And so on and so forth we went talking into the night, early morning bliss waiting to be cracked like a walnut, and clearly our paths were not too separated, maybe we were cocky and jealous and frightful, but we were hoping to undo it, to understand, and transform, and all these beautiful little words which make more sense than hatred.