Take to flight my ineffable! In the wake of materialism, we flutter at the interim of the spirit, reaching across the irrelevant dichotomy. No more will the subjective lay shy of its empirical discretion. No more will the haunts of logic, of emotion, render us whole. And no more will reality stay hush for respect of our elder ideologies.
And too, no more will time carry us on, as rather we will carry time into the venture of a dissolving soul, a bright spirit convicted to the heart of the matter, that is, time itself ongoing.
Let us then take flight upon the ineffable … to health!
...
An Offer Sleight of Hand
Won’t you dance with me, darling? Stoic? To speak of dances
as if boredom could not attain, as no matter the brevity of duration of the lag
in digitized time, it is only a moment that saves us from despair. Only a whisper of promiscuous elegy.
We are only vessels of our belief. And in the intellectual, premature birth of materialistic
pursuit, a poetry in law, it is still a belief in beauty that pervades our
rational doubt. The concept remains the
inspiration despite the weight of empirical detail. When the currency is vast, we move in the emotional dilations of
imaginary numbers tempered by the collective whim, imprisoning the salvatory
moment. Consumerism is fueled by the
exclusion of the introspect from the public life of the mind. There is no reason not to follow your heart
on the endless tide of immediate emotion.
And when the currency is scarce, we ghost upriver as salmon
nearing the end of the season. Short of
time to lay our legacy. A despondent
stillness in our struggle. Even when
standing still, our mind is still, just a sparkle wandering, the material of
our pursuit having been diluted ephemeral.
We are spirits chained to freedom, tied to the next gust
departing, as somber, silent, and inapproachable as when coming on. Red lips having forgotten to speak of a
hearty bite into the glass apple of elegance of touch, having ushered in a
technological redefinition of the emotive life, and passing away quite
ephemerally on the many rivers now heartily bearing the source back to
sea. The material death was only a
moment of despair, now waiting for the instantiation of the moment from which
our spirit heeds its salvation, and in the wake of all of history, those waters
having been deposited in static pools with the recession of the tide. No more a source of inspiration.
...
Dreams Dreams Dreams ...
The realist is in need of immediacy, in need of a sign. All the lights along the freeway bear the
burden of proof, to illuminate the vast aching of open space, rather barrel us
along to our comatose emporium. The
dreamer needs a rest, and there’s no place like home. That is, the enclosure of the commons, moving fully from moment
to moment quite hesitant of speech for fear of freedom, the communal endowment
of stripped meaning. Bravery a new form
of cowardice in the rational way of life.
Sometimes I strain my eyes against the squinting wind and
peer light in tears out over the ocean of a concept, moving like a ghost
through, along, the borders of political depreciation, despair. The ninth symphony has been uttered already
in the mask of a glitch. May
irrationality deceive a timeless wisdom?
Some people just deserve to have their faith rewarded. The congealing of a materialistic defiance
in a spiritual reality.
Flying home, a commune of silence. The thoughts that drive on by.
The flurried hush for freedom’ sake.
Cold, flat iron an image to redeem the culture to its unspoken
utilities. The morning fleet, at first
light climbing upon the stairs to face reality, then to walking back on down at
the set of the day to dream of a better life.
I care nothing for material, only for beauty, at whatever price.
...
Deceptions of the Corporate Gods
The modern woman stands alone. It is the small of her back where her heart’s strings are played,
shivering impersonality… there is only the proper gesture or some lesser chaos,
or some charming sweet nothing, whispering of lust…
If thee dance with the devil late this hallows’ eve, all
encompassing, then do not be surprised if he lingers in the morning… his
cynicism a reticent beauty that only burns out in the dawn… a hollow
depreciation of the glorification of the moment, redefining history for all its
worth…
Ah this heavy moment in the loss of light… have it be a
timeless celebration… as light as a feather in the dust… the wind can only stir
our souls if it is embodied, a sacrament, a corporate avowal to begin again in
the darkness, eye to eye…
...
A Letter to my Constituency
We all have our places at the table. I sat at the head and watched the drama of
dinner conversation unravel into the redundancies and itinerancies of
culture. Realizing that the coy essence
of my attendance was merely a ploy. And
she sat across the elongated table like she was a waitress of the elegies, straight
fingers though with an arch of the wrist in order to give shape and cradle to
the glass. Reflective distancing. The kindness of refusal betraying my
desperation… as the shadows are always finding me, as light as a feather, as
heavy as angels’ dust.
A dancer once exclaimed that God is dead, at His dancing
feet was slain, His greatest fear to be worshipped just the same, as in He who
slays God might take his name. In death
there is birth, in chaos, opportunity, a materialistic gain. There are those whom stand above the ark of
time, and those whom must be seen. And
I am like a Bohemian ghost standing tall on the cityscape. I am the peak and valley of destiny. The free market is dead. I slay it here and now, becoming its
liquidity, its self subsistence, the dissolution of corporate personhood qua
the individual.
It seems culture would have me wrap my past in some shy
admission of naïvety, true or not, in order to demonstrate growth. I am afraid I cannot do this, and that it
would only demonstrate the opposite. My
waitress far so distant, so brief, my elegy could never heed the call to cave
to culture as if it were a destiny.
The old ways are gone.
My persona has been a mockery of their value that only those who’ve
feigned belief could properly grasp, few and far between. The old ways are dead… no longer of
significance to bear a family name… for how many generations can the hyphen
extend? Which will prevail in
vernacular once it has reached too far, or which will prevail in truncation…
the consolidation of information? The
bodies of old ways are lost, forgotten… shells on the sand that the tide will
no longer reach too. The laissez faire
devoured in opportunity.
And I stand to collect.
I’ve parted with the aspirations of the modern woman, having honed my
image in those eyes, and no longer reach to grasp their depth… gone and the
current pulls me back no longer… and in this empty space… so dire… so
precarious… so simple to lose sight of the edge… I ask… what time in history is
this to be afraid of death? What time
is this to cower in the confines of culture?
What time is this to believe in a God or a country or a market or a
system… or in Mother Nature herself?
The world is overpopulated beyond belief. Culture has strung itself so thin that there is but one real
distinction left… the East and the West… and this waives a favoring hand to the
West. Mother Nature has demonstrated
her severe capacity for irony. What
time is this to enclose ourselves in abandoned shells of belief and huddle in
the sand? Avoiding a wind we deem too
harsh… no… rather it only demands our silence, instead of our tragedy and our
comedy, our bickering and our garbage.
Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com
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