Thoughts lying on a couch, in Argentina. My diary records me.
Spy those legs that weave around the table,
teaching me, as I forget
your name, it’s your name, and I forget it.
With new turns I do remember
Reading always means existing
long forgotten, never learned
But learning is recording, that is all
that is all.
My learning is a constant
and submits to massive failures
yet same constant is my freedom
it’s my burden and I’ll keep it
For the beauty on its table
under darkness, in the stable
left for loneliness the token
Fine-tuned journey, wisened teacher.
And the preacher near the doorway
tells me I have not yet spoken;
but I’m screaming
and I’m deeming him to be deceitful,
Then the silence in the slumber
of my waking world assaults me,
for there’s truth in what the preacher
prays to tell me for his part.
I have not yet known the netting
that protects me from my neighbours,
a perversely porous bubble
brewing trouble in my heart.
So I thank the man and take my toil
tangled in tomorrow,
to enjoy the jousting justified
by jaded faded means.
Meander in the mires but
remember mighty focus;
that we travel tasting all
the tainted tethers of latrines.
Iguacu the Mighty